A Cure For Hatred
by Visions of Paradise
Summary: A twist in vengeance leaves Wilson in the doghouse when he invites a woman begging for help when all her doctors proclaim she's dying. But this isn't an ordinary patient. She's from House's past and may be the very reason House is as he is.
1. The Doctor is Out

**Chapter 1: The Doctor is Out**

Doctor Gregory House turned over in his lounge chair. The sunlight made his vision turn white, he noticed, as he tried to make his sight adjust to the surroundings as he tried to figure out where he was. His mind was a blank canvas in regards to last night. He rubbed his eyes. He pursed his lips together feeling his mouth grow increasingly dry, wondering if this was from him truly being thirsty or from his vicodin. His vicodin, he suddenly remembered. Where did it go? He couldn't remember anything from the previous night. Suddenly his mind was called back by the sudden pain in his right leg. He also felt the warm beginnings of a sunburn as he looked on the ground around his chair in his reclined position and began searching the pockets of his jeans for clues. But all he found was a genuine key with a number attached for the keychain. At least now he knew where he was, but that only seemed to bring about more questions that he didn't have the answers to either.

Why a motel? Why didn't he just go home last night? Did he come here with anybody? Where was here? He thought if he got back to the room, maybe he'd be able to solve them all if for starters, he figured out where he was. He knew for a start that he was at the pool. He saw from his surroundings that this was definitely a cheap motel. The only judgments he could make about this place were the people he'd meet here: Loners, tweakers, drifters, hookers and people hiding out. This was not a sober place, he thought happily. House took comfort in the fact that at the very least, he had made a good decision in some way. He looked at the burnt orange stucco building, and prayed someone in the office would at least speak English.

He got up carefully from his sitting position and hopped up focusing his weight on his one good leg. Balancing, gingerly, he hopped up and leaned onto an iron gate. He was in the pool enclosure, that much he knew for sure. He hopped along the edge, continually looking back to the buildings for any sign that it was hallucinated. The motel itself still looked4 bad and he swore silently to himself that if they charged more than thirty-two bucks for it, he would be leaving with a few more towels. He glanced at the sun, hoping for a sign. But who was he kidding? He didn't believe in signs unless they were neon.

"Hey, Greg!" A man's voice, thick with Spanish called out. House turned in the direction to see a man standing at the gate waving his hand.

"Hola, vato." House responded and limped over to the nameless man. He gave him a high-five that turned into a firm handshake. House squinted his eyes from the late afternoon sun, and offered a confused smile. "Who are you again?"

"Are you kiddin' me?" The nameless stranger seemed astonished. His face turned sympathetic quickly. "Well actually it's not that much a shock considerin' how much you drank last night." House looked him up and down quickly. Baggy clothes, muscular like a club bouncer, and tall with sleeves running from wrists to neck. As someone would call his intertwining tattoos on his arms sleeves, this guy must be going for a turtle neck; he mused. He removed the Loc brand sunglasses from his eyes and slid them back onto his shaven head. "Julian Pedroza." He offered.

The name rang no bells in House's mind. House had assumed once he found the man's identity that all the puzzle pieces would simply fall into place- but now they seemed as far apart as ever. Without warning, the pain in his leg made him stumble noticeably. He grabbed the part of his thigh that burned and it felt comparable to someone holding a flame directly under the skin. He gritted his teeth as he pushed on it as hard as he could.

"Greg, you alright, man?" Julian asked, concern peaked in his voice as he looked down at House's sides. "Where's your cane, man?"

House raised himself up, halfway to look at Julian's face. "How'd you know about my cane?" He tried his best to refocus as Julian surveyed the scene. He opened up the gate and walked around the pool. He once again had his Locs recovering his eyes, making him look infinitely more villainous than he appeared to be.

"Found it!" He announced with triumph. He was standing at the edge of the pool and was looking into it. "Hey, Greg, hand me that metal pole over there." House did what Julian bid him to do. As Julian fished in the pool with the maintenance utensil, he began speaking once more to a memory-lapsed House. "Oh, like I was saying, me and some homies dropped by your room last night to tell you to cut the music down, and before I knew what happened you offered us some drinks and you threw one hell of a party." He began pulling the pole back carefully, snickering to himself. "Come to think of it, we never had to tell a white boy to turn the music down before. I'm amazed as hell you ain't got a hangover." He finished the thought aloud. Julian pulled out the pole and grabbed the dripping cane off the end carefully. When he got a tight grip he took it off the end and let the pole unceremoniously drop down against the cement with a resounding clank. He offered the cane back.

House accepted it gratefully and let go of the iron gate. Both men made their way through the gate, both heading in opposite directions, House staring at the numerous rooms, and fished the key out of his pocket to look at the designated room number. 113. House wasn't about to count each room, but he was fairly certain there weren't over a hundred rooms.

"Well, I guess I'll catch you later, Greg." Julian told House and didn't wait for him to respond. House called out to him, and he instantly turned back. House showed him the key.

"Where's room 113?" House asked. Julian walked to him and took the key in his hand and handed it back to House.

"It's actually room thirteen. This is a spare set." Julian informed him. "For every pair you lose, they put that many times in front of the number." He looked at his House's face to see if any of it was registering, which apparently, it wasn't. "Just take my word for it, man. You're in room thirteen." He watched House's bad leg as he thanked him and walked away noticing how much worse his limp was getting. He shook his head. "Wait up, man. I can take you there if you want. But I got some business to take care of on the way." Julian bargained with him, trying to disguise that he was taking time out to help him with it being no bother. "If you don't mind, that is." He offered.

House shrugged. "Your business is your business." He paused before continuing, "But aren't you worried that I'm a cop?" Julian broke out laughing.

"Man, after all the shit you did last night- there's no way in hell you're a cop!" He exclaimed laughing, not caring who heard them as they walked to the outside of the building. "But if you _are_ a cop, then I got some serious stuff to discuss with Internal Affairs. House was caught off guard as two little Mexican children ran passed, almost knocking House down in the process. He grabbed the wall as Julian side-stepped them and yelled at them in Spanish. To which one of the one of the children responded before turning the corner and out of sight. House knew what was said, through his fluent Spanish. Kids chasing after the ice cream truck. How innocent. But he'd be lying if he wasn't hoping one of them would drop the ice cream as soon as he got it, for knocking him over like that.

"These kids, man. I love them to death- but they're not showing much in the way of respeto." Julian observed. "You got any kids, man?"

"Frankly, I try to avoid them as all costs." House admitted, brutally, earning a warning look from over Julian's shoulder. "You know, baby mama troubles."

"Oh I get what you mean." Julian responded, all offense withdrawn. Once they turned the corner, they began heading to a group of boys gathered in a semi-circle, right next to a giant dumpster in the motel parking lot. House chose to hang back as Julian went ahead and approached the boys without emotion. Hushed voices passed between Julian and a preteen looking white boy wearing a tagger shirt and baggy low riding shorts that exposed his boxers. Julian reached into his pocket and handed the boy a rolled up sandwich bag. The boy put a wad of cash into Julian's and a few coins. Julian's mood seemed to change instantaneously. House heard the conversation as Julian back to House's side.

"I look like a slot machine! We in Vegas? Out your damn mind giving me some quarters." Julian then chuckled a little to himself and sang, Beyonce's "To The Left", "You must not know 'bout me…" House laughed along with him. When they reached House's room, the street lamps had come on even though the sun still hung low in the sky, creating a brilliant palette of golds, soft blues and lavenders. House opened the door and took a collective look around the room, as Julian seated himself to sit on a lemon yellow couch that smelled of musk and was the color of a dehydrated lemon. The wall was no better.

"So would you call this color Smoker's Teeth or Dried Mustard, Julian?" House asked twirling around to look at his new, temporary companion. They both cracked up laughing for over an hour. House grabbed his pills and popped a couple, washing it down with a shot of whiskey he'd found in the fridge, while Julian pulled a blunt from his pocket and lit it.

"How about Hard-Boiled Egg Yolk?" Julian suggested. They just laughed even harder. For the next hour, they ran over everything that happened last night, which some of it didn't surprise House at all. Except for when they talked about one of his homeboys and there was a lobster in a toilet at one point, and a bathtub made into an aquarium with goldfish, which died from the introduction to bubbles. House also found out much to his displeasure that today was Monday and all he remembered back to was Friday afternoon when he left work. As far as he knew, his motorcycle wasn't even here. He didn't look forward to interfacing with Cuddy or any of his coworkers. At this precise moment, he didn't care about anything.

"So who was that pretty blonde lady you showed us a picture of?" Julian asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke. House felt a slight contact high in the works.

"Oh, you mean Pamela Handerson?" House joked, knowing exactly who Julian was talking about, secretly.

"No, no, no. The one you had in your wallet." Julian worded concisely, as he offered the half smoked joint to House, who accepted it and inhaled deeply.

"Well, it could be Pamela." House coughed a little as he handed it back. "I have a picture of her in my wallet."

"No, man. It was someone else. Started with an 'E'." Julian specified and it became harder and harder for House to ignore.

"She was just a girl." House began to feel the effects of the whiskey, pills, and marijuana. Julian's permanent grin seemed to slowly die down. "Just a girl."

Julian's expression turned somber. "Well, you talked about her like you cared for her a lot." He observed aloud. "I mean, you even held the picture like it was some type of treasure." House stared blankly ahead as though he stared down a long corridor and the longer he stared, the longer it grew. House came to and gave Julian a dark look not to go there. "Well, whatever you say, man."

"Where is she now?" Julian asked half out of curiosity and half out of just wanting to break the silence.

House, for once in his life, didn't want to be rude or sarcastic. House didn't want this man that had no knowledge of medicine or that he was a paragon in the medicinal field (despite his smudged record), he genuinely had no desire to be Doctor House. And he didn't want to be the calloused, bitter, angry doctor everyone knew of, today he was Greg. House popped a fourth Vicodin into his mouth, broke it in between his teeth, and drained it down with a shot of whiskey. "She's dead." House answered lowly. Julian looked spaced out.

"I hear ya." Julian agreed, finally freed of his perma-grin. "My girl's gone too. Got hit by a stray bullet meant for me- got her instead. Ain't one day passes, I don't think about her and thank God for having her in my life." Julian pulled out a cigarette box and got one out for himself and one for House. House, even though he didn't smoke normally, took the cigarette and lit it up. "At the same time though, I still wish it would've been me. It should've been me. Her death was more than a crime; it was a violation against life." House looked around the room and noticed the burnt-orange wall paint, which accompanied the bed. Then he turned his gaze onto the dried-lemon looking couch that had a matching lamp on a table by the bed.

"You know, I didn't ever think anyone would let the Brady Bunch do their decorating." He rubbed his face with his palms, taking a drag of the cigarette and acted in mock- horror. "I was wrong!" Julian smiled and choked on the smoke of the cigarette. House simply smiled to himself. "It's horrible."

"You know, Greg," Julian said standing up. "You're alright, man." He walked over and shook House's hand again. "But I gotta few more drops to make."

"You're a pretty cool dude, yourself." Julian stopped and turned by the front door.

"You gonna be okay?" Julian asked, standing with his hand hovering over the door handle.

"Yeah, I'm just gonna call a friend, jack a few towels and get outta here." House informed him. Julian nodded in understanding.

"I feel ya." Julian inhaled a drag off his cigarette. "Can I ask you a question before you go?" House wanted to avoid it, but his mind was enjoying the buzz enough to care.

"Shoot." It was a rare moment to get a glimpse in House's mind, but what the hell; he didn't feel like being House today.

"Why are you here?"

"To get away from my life." House answered bluntly. "Why do you sell drugs?"

"You remember those kids we passed in the hall?" House nodded as Julian pulled out a new cigarette from his pocket and lit it. "Those were my girl's kids. They ain't got nobody but me and my moms." He took a drag. "I do it so one day they don't have to. In case they wanna go to college or something. We live poor now, so they can live better on their own when I'm gone. Got them their own bank accounts and everything. He looked at the yellow-stained ceiling. "So one day, they can get outta here." He stood solemnly. "Mom's been sick for a long time. Doctors can't figure out what's wrong with her." House's eyes perked up. An unsolvable sickness and he so happened to be a diagnostician.

"I'm a doctor." House offered it to Julian like a gift, but instead, all House got in turn was a sudden shift of anger. He flicked his cigarette out the door.

"I knew you were an asshole when I met you- hell that was one of the things I liked about you. But don't you ever mock me again, when I'm tryin' to be real with you." Julian exited the single living spaced motel room, letting the door bang hard when it closed. And through the window, all he heard was Julian laughing his head off, mocking him.

"_Doctor_ Gregory House. Yeah right!"

Apparently for Greg, he was and would always be House. Greg was a hanging on by the skin of his teeth med student, while House was who he was every day since his life fell apart. Unfortunately, there was and would never be a severance of the two. Cuddy never even called him Greg. Neither had Wilson or anybody except for maybe his mother. There was no more Greg. Simply House, an M.D. who drank too much, took too many pills, was too crippled, and took too many risks that never really worked out.

AUTHOR'S NOTE::: From the next chapter on, we'll be diving into House's past and find the real reason that started everything. Good plots with twists and surprises. READ AND REVIEW IF ANYONE IS INTERESTED IN SEEING MORE OF THIS STORY.

_VisionsofParadise_


	2. Vengeance is a Dish Best Left Alone

**Chapter 2: Vengeance is a Dish Best Left Alone**

James Wilson parked his SUV in the parking lot in front of House's apartment building as House exited the passenger side door, cane first, swinging his black and red backpack over his shoulder. Wilson turned quickly to keep his closing door from shutting completely, just in time to remember to grab out a mid-sized cardboard box. With a grunt he realized at that moment how heavy the box actually was.

"Look House, I understand having no memory of the previous night is normal for you but," Wilson paused to close the door with his foot as fast as he could before the box knocked him off balance and began to run to keep up to House who was still feelings his buzz from a few hours ago. "What could a man need with so many towels?"

"What'd you expect me to do? They charged me fifty-six dollars for a single roomed rat hole, with a basic cable box, a broken remote and no happy-pants movies!" House whined as he traipsed drunkenly at Wilson's side. "I will give it up for them on one point, that lamp was not easy to get off the nails they bolted it to the table with." House smiled with pride as Wilson noticed an ugly yellow shaded cord hanging out of the box. House and Wilson walked to House's door wordless, each with their silent suspicions about the other.

"Shut up, if I haven't mentioned it already." House got his keys and unlocked his doors with relative ease, after a moment of inability to find the keyhole. Finally, he swung the door open. Wilson standing behind him, mouth agape in surprise. "I'm not psychic, I just know you." He answered the silence and walked into his living room. "Here kitty, kitty." He called loudly, and then a memory struck him that made him sink onto his black leather couch. "Oh yeah. You died four years ago." He laughed a little to himself at how truly alone he felt, but didn't care at the same time. Today was a complex crossroads of emotions.

"Hey, Jimmy?" He called when he heard the box get set down on the side table followed by the door closing.

"Hmm?" Wilson called fingering through the box to see if there was anything of value to him inside. In the end, not so much.

"You remember when we met? When I kept playing Billy Joel that night?" House rarely brought up past issues, so it seemed like a breakthrough to his friend who sat down in the matching La-Z-Boy chair, off House's side.

"Yeah." Wilson answered, reminiscing like it was yesterday. "You played it; I just broke up with my girlfriend. I told you to stop. BIM BAM BOOM, beer glass thrown shattered antique mirror. You bailed me out without knowing me. What about it?" Wilson asked, knowing deeply, somehow that House had a point to all this.

"Well, that night when I went to that bar I just-"House decided instantly he didn't want to talk about it. He wasn't ready to tell him the whole truth yet. "I could tell you had a lot of anger and you reminded me of a nun, and you have ever since then."

"How do I act like a nun?" Wilson inquired, intrigued by House's sudden turn of conversation. "When have I?" He demanded.

"Well for starters you're friends with me."

"You bailed me out!"

"Did I ever apologize to you for making you angry?"

"Well no, but,-" House cut Wilson off mid-sentence.

"Remember that hooker on New Year's?" Wilson looked incredulous as his friend smiled inwardly. House and Wilson knew exactly where this argument was going.

"I had a girlfriend!" Wilson insisted. "You promised we were never going to talk about this again!" He exclaimed like an embarrassed child.

"Yeah I remember, twins right? Angelina HOLE-E and Pamela HANDerson!" House exclaimed laughing, heartily to Wilson's back as his friend gathered the box of House's new knickknacks and set them in the bathroom on the linoleum floor. House stayed still and slouched into the couch hoping it would just swallow him alive. His vacation was not far enough for him. He resigned himself and grabbed the remote and clicked on the television "Hey, Springer's on, Jimmy!" House exclaimed. Wilson's retort was silence.

"My baby-daddy is a transsexual." He muttered to himself as he read the episode's segment topic. "Hey Jimmy, your mother ever been on television?" He called out. No answer still. He sat up and prayed silently he didn't hurt his feelings more than usual. He sat up and looked on the side table that just had been covered by his new towels. He noticed there was some mail addressed to him. He leaned over and picked up his postal messages as Wilson came out of the bathroom announcing,

"Your towels are put away, sire." He looked at House for any hint of appreciation, only to be waved away. He pointed at the mail in House's hands. "I brought those in yesterday when I came here looking for you."

House read through his mail sorting bills and trash and didn't even look up at him. "You get a key made?" House furrowed his brow in concentration as he read one letter that was to him. He remembered its handwriting that spelled his name. Its sender was an unwelcome jolt to his memory that it seemed to punch him in the stomach and knock all the air out of his lungs.

"I always have a key made. Someone's gotta be here to make sure the dealer finds the right house." Ordinarily, that would've earned a light chuckle. Wilson glanced at House's face and tried to read any emotions there. House looked distressed, angry even. He waited for a retort that took an unusual amount of time. "House, what's the matter?" He asked at last. House snapped back to attention.

"Oh nothing. High school sweetheart claims the baby is mine." He gave a fake chuckle. "Fifth one this week. I need to invest in some condoms." Wilson cringed at the visual. Wilson's curiosity peaked.

"Which one? It's not Stacy is it?" Wilson began walking to House's couch to sit down, but as soon as he did, House was suddenly up and dropping all the letters in the trash bin without opening or reading any of them. Wilson stood there, intrigued. "Well, aren't you going to open it?" He asked.

"Past is Past." House answered philosophically. "I think of exes from time to time, and then I remember why they're exes. Then I just end up hoping they have stage four cancer, are horrendously obese and ugly; smoking a pack a day with fifteen rug rats running rampant. Finally, when those two minutes are up, I go about with my day." House said his piece thinking about how he wouldn't read the letter and wasn't intending to ever see it. Temptation was usually the one thing House couldn't resist, but he could resist this. It could sit there until it disintegrated he didn't care.

"What just happened?" Wilson asked looking concerned in House's direction. House hoped he wasn't looking at him like that. He hated pity, any percentage of it. He was a Medicinal Doctor, a graduate in many fields, his life was full and he had endless bottles of good feelings. He didn't need anyone's pity.

"This is the type of story that needs mood-lighting and a cob-pipe. Happen to have one in your pocket, Jimmy?" House asked Wilson already fully aware Wilson didn't smoke at all. Wilson knew what he was saying in the silences of his sentences.

"You really want me to leave?"

"Or I can." House offered. "Even though it is my home and all. Need a pack of cigarettes anyway." Wilson put his hands up in a surrendering gesture, walking backwards towards the door.

"Alright," Wilson began. "I get it. You don't want to talk about it." House impersonated his best, mock-shock expression.

"Your sense of perception's astounding! Go, Spider-man, go! Your spidey-senses are on a roll." House hobbled towards the door. The letter popped back in his mind as he walked by the trash receptacle, like it was calling him, gnawing at his brain. Begging silently for just a moment of importance. Once more, House turned and opened the door and called to Wilson. "Order a pizza. I'm going for some movies."

Wilson sat down and pulled his cell phone from his trouser pocket. Once Domino's picked up, House stuck his head back in the door.

"Make yourself at home, Jimmy. I'll be back when the movie's over." Wilson hung up the phone before even placing an order.

Being ditched was a game they played together all the time. But he was, lately, always the one being ditched. Wilson thought and plotted revenge with an almost placid smile. Maybe he should invite one of House's relatives for the weekend to his apartment. Maybe destroy his comic book collection, maybe even the old cellophane under the toilet lid trick. He chuckled aloud at that idea. House cleaning up his own mess for the first time in his life. Wilson glanced around the apartment for any clues to House's undoing. Nothing he really cared about that couldn't be replaced was kept here, and he never noticed it before now. Then the trash can caught his eye. The ex-girlfriend.

Wilson crouched down beside the old aluminum trash bin and seized the small stack of letters. He stayed by the trash can, knelt over it as he sorted through the letters. Electric, gas, insurance bills, postcard for a one year anniversary special at a bulk-buy store. Then there it was Erin Richardson to Gregory House. With great excitement his nimble, surgeon fingers ripped off the top and opened the letter. And as his eyes scanned over the contents, his smile diminished. He never opened the letter. For once, he did have the upper hand on House. And he could either make him suffer or have a small, miniscule chance for a Pyrrhic victory.

He tried to weigh the pros and cons as he made his way back to the recliner, rereading the letter as he walked. He sighed. He had a job to help his friend and help whoever was writing. He finally understood the phrase between a rock and a hard place; the secret was either way- you lose. This plea was too great to be ignored. He pulled his cell phone back out of his pocket and stared at the letter trying to weigh in one final time on if he should do this.

If he did, he could save a life but probably lose his friend. House must have reasons that he didn't want to open her letter, but was whatever he had against her so great that it was worth a life? To sit there and watch the life seep out of them this dreadful way? Maybe House didn't know what was going on; there was always the chance that he never opened up any of her letters. There was major fall-out to be had from this.

But on the other hand, saving a life was always a risk worth taking. But if he failed at this, House may hurt and never forgive him for this. And he'd be terribly guilty to himself if he ignored the letter since he had read the words. This woman, Erin, had apologized multiple times in the letter, though no context clues he could use to figure out what she had done that was so wrong that she had earned enough hate from House to be cut-out of his life.

Either he would be guilty by betraying his own conscience, or he would betray House and ultimately lose his friendship and end up in the same boat as the woman writing.

But possibly, if he allowed himself to dream, and it worked out, House's wounds (well some of them) would be healed and maybe he'd be forgiven for the tiny betrayal.  
>Maybe even praised. But his best friend would be better. He directed his gaze to the bottom of the page and entered the digits into his cell phone. His mind had become a merry-go-round where he couldn't decide safely where to get off. His thumb hit 'send'.<p>

Ring.

Hoped he was doing the right thing.

Ring.

Perhaps he could deal with the guilt himself of he could just hang up now- the line picked up.

"Hello?" Came a female's voice on the other end. Wilson felt his heart speed up, knowing once he said a word he wouldn't be able to turn back. He swallowed hard.

"Hello, Ms. Richardson? My name's James Wilson. I'm an oncologist at Princeton-Plainsboro…."


	3. The Unchased Goose

**Chapter 3: The Unchased Goose**

House never returned to his home the previous night. Instead he got drunk and ended up on some stranger's couch and woke up to a snoring man on the floor beside him. It seemed his subconscious always lead him to motels, one way or the other. He couldn't explain it; there seemed no reason for it. But he, nevertheless, quietly crawled over the man, got his cane and walked out the door. He rode on his motorcycle back to his home, got a shower, and decided to go to work for two, petty, reasons. The reasons were he needed another paycheck and the other was he simply had nothing better to do that day.

As he drove to Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital, he found himself befuddled by a strange feeling. It was like he was nervous, but filled with electricity the closer he got to his work. He felt as if there was static in the air and it became more evident to him with every street he turned. His helmet he thanked silently as he almost sped passed a stop sign and into a Mustang Convertible, if he hadn't turned left and onto the curb beforehand. He watched as the man driving swerved his car suddenly and yelled obscenities at him. He shook his head and made a U-turn to go back to his usual commute. He cursed himself for not being more aware, but at the same time- he couldn't help but wish that it hit him.

He wasn't depressed; it was just his way of thinking that labeled him depressed. The levels of dopamine just never made it to his pleasure center like everyone else, so he had to help it along. The psychiatrists didn't understand what he meant though he said it plain as day. It was always one anti-depressant after another. Celebrex, Wellbutrin, Neurontin, Amitryptiline, Prozac… he'd been on them all. Nothing lifted his pain; and nothing changed his mind. The medicine always just seemed to make him numb, so he needed to find a way to feel. His Vicodin abuse, excessive drinking, and fast driving seemed to fill the void for him.

He analyzed his mind from an emotional and a clinical point of view all the way to the hospital. He took off his helmet after he parked his bike in front of his designated handicapped space just outside the main entrance. He placed his helmet into his backpack and replaced the pack slung over one shoulder. Once more, his nerves were lighting up like some unknown warning signal that something was not as it should be. He didn't believe in psychic phenomena, he chided himself mentally as he grabbed his cane from the makeshift rack on the lower side of his bike and forced himself to go in, though something inside told him not to proceed; to get back on his motorcycle, go home, take a few more Vicodin and not leave his bed for a couple of days. Yet strangely still, there he was opening the door and hobbling in.

His face changed from one of unease to one of indifference. A woman walking by, that he did not know, came dangerously close to invading his space.

"You said my Willy was fine and he has a fever!" She charged him as he tried to continue walking away. A crude image hit his mind at the very mention of Willy. He thought just telling her to leave him alone but decided it be best left alone. Until she repeated her tirade of injustice a little louder. "Look, Dr. House, you misdiagnosed my son and sent him home and we took him to Dr. Wyler and he was diagnosed with measles!" She proclaimed. House did not know what she was expecting him to rectify the situation.

"Look, sir, I'm not entirely comfortable talking to you in a hospital lobby about the diagnosis on your penis, but if you don't care if everyone knows," He exclaimed the sentence with random emphasis on words so everyone within earshot would turn and star or walk by a little slower to hear the rest of the conversation. "Then I will be glad to discuss it here. Did you not check the discharge instructions? I simply told you what your child had and you refused to believe it because that would make it reflect on your bad parenting, you tree-hugging hippy!" He bellowed accusingly. The woman looked at him in shock.

"I showed you his shot card! He got his measles vaccine two years ago!" The corpulent woman shrieked back in defense.

"Anyone who graduated the fifth-grade with the IQ above a _stick_, can spot a forgery. Doctor's have messy writing- it's why most people caught writing their own prescriptions out. I could _read_ it!" He lowered his tone suddenly; looking into the small slits her eyes had become, and noticed her face was flustered. "Personally, between you and me, I don't think a batman character was very original either."

"What the- I would never!"

"But you did it anyway! Edward Nigma?" He stamped his cane. "I'm sorry; I can't waste any more time with you. So closing advice: bring 'Willy' back here; tell them Dr. House diagnosed him with measles. They'll treat him." He had the elevators in his sight as he wished so sorely that he was able to run again. She glared at him as he smirked back at her.

"I'm going to get you fired." She stopped walking as he reached the elevators and pushed the arrow button that signaled he wanted to go up. The doors _dinged_ and opened almost immediately as he stepped in. The woman crossed her arms over her broad chest and continued her death-stare in his direction.

"Take a number." He said carelessly as he pushed the third floor's button to get up to his office. The woman had a look of disbelief that washed over her face. As the doors closed his smirk changed to an entirely faux smile. "Good day to you, sir." The doors closed. He felt his confidence return with his first tell-off of the day. He stood a little straighter, but he still felt unsettled. He gazed beside him on the lift, sighting a couple standing next to him. The husband had silvery-grey hair and a dark tan; he looked far older than his companion who had expensive looking rings adorning her fingers, beautiful tan face with over-proportionate breasts, and probably weighed one-hundred and five pounds with wet hair. Your basic everyday conservative, money hungry couple. He suddenly decided these were not the type of people he wanted to share his air space with. He sniffed with disgust, smelling musk and perfume mixed heavily. He coughed, about to make a remark to the old man about the proper use of formaldehyde when his train of thought was interrupted.

"House." Came a voice from behind him. Doctor Foreman tried to command his attention, but only got a casual cursory glance, then another immediately afterward.

"Oh, Forman," House grabbed his chest with his left hand as he leaned heavily on his cane with the other as he exhaled loudly and turned to the white couple, still holding his chest. "I thought he was going to take my wallet." House clarified to them. Foreman's eyes rolled as he saw the wife clutch her Coco Chanel handbag tighter to her side, and grasped her husband's hand like a life preserver. House smiled to himself inwardly, both at the knowledge that he offended someone and at the euphoria he felt; having taken enough Vicodin in his system to sedate a small rhinoceros. Once the elevator had stopped at their appropriate floor, House hobbled out on his cane with Foreman following close behind. Just before the doors shut, House turned back to his fellow lift-patrons.

"He's going to mug me!" He whispered urgently. The doors closed quietly and the last view he saw was the silver-haired gentleman pulling a cellular phone to his ear. He assumed the call was being placed to 911.

"Why would you do that?" Foreman asked, angrily. "They can see that I'm a doctor. Maybe we should take you to the tenth floor. You've had a rough couple of years." He generally looked concerned as they walked quickly passed the nurse's station, pausing only long enough for House to adjust his dark, blue backpack's strap and grab a hand full of files that were in his box on the way to House's office/consultation office.

_Ah, the tenth floor_. He knew it well. Great for Thorazine, meeting interesting people, and of course, a vacation from life where no sharp objects are allowed. He didn't believe in psychiatrists or their therapy sessions. He'd been through them enough to know.

"No. The tenth floor wouldn't help me." He answered as he huffed a little; feeling his age slowly catch up to him. "Not when I enjoy being the God of my own universe." They walked down a long hallway, bright in both natural and artificial light, finally arriving to his office. Foreman opened the glass door that read in bold print **'Gregory House, M.D. – Diagnostics"**. Just as Foreman moved one foot close to the door, House walked quickly inside ahead of him.

"Crippled comes before 'mentally disabled' in the dictionary." House gave a reason to Foreman for his faux pas. Foreman felt a little stunned, as his boss went straight to the table.

"Mentally disabled' comes before 'paraplegic." Foreman muttered bitterly to himself, picturing mentally exactly what he meant. House popped his head back outside the door.

"What was that?" House questioned suspiciously. Foreman shook his head and gave a weak 'nothing' as a response. They both entered the office where his team of handpicked doctors were assembled. "Homie, after all we been through together in the projects? I can't believe you'd wish harm on me." House's face turned to one of fake sadness with his bottom lip overexposed. Foreman in turn, rolled his eyes once more at him. House poured himself a cup of coffee, not adding cream or sugar. He took a sip and it burned his tongue as it went down, but he grimaced to himself and went to his standard position at the head of the table and dropped his backpack on the floor. He threw the files carelessly on the table and looked around at his team. Foreman had silently rushed and took a seat like a student when the bell rings.

Doctors Taub, Foreman, Masters and Chase were all seated and ready to tackle the day's assignments as House got his dry erase marker and stood next to the board. Then he noticed something that was somewhat irregular. He directed his attention to Chase.

"What're you doing here? You couldn't make it in the big, scary Emergency Room?" House openly mocked his presence, though secretly he was quite fond of his work demeanor and eagerness. Chase inhaled a deep breath of air.

"Actually there was nothing so far that called for my area of expertise, so I decided to lend you a hand." Chase laid to rest the conversation. Luckily it seemed to satisfy House's abundant curiosity as he went onto the next matter that was on his mind.

"Where's bisexual?" House wondered aloud to anyone that could help him come up with a plausible answer. "If any of you know where thirteen is, I'll settle for that." He glanced around at the faces of his colleagues, noticing curiously that Doctor Taub wasn't looking at him directly. Though he was staring at him, it seemed that he was staring at the wall. Meanwhile, Masters couldn't meet his eyes at all. Masters cleared her throat and House turned in her direction. Under her pristine doctor's coat, House noticed her eclectic fashion sense went awry with yet another geek-couture mess, She wore a burnt orange shirt with a black skirt that went just passed her knees, with black stockings. He looked at her with venom virtually dripping off his words.

"Before you answer," House began and raised his hand for emphasis, "Why didn't you tell me you went to a Gwen Stefani concert over the weekend, and why wasn't I invited?" The blatant attack on her personal style made House earn the internal blow he was half-searching for. Her face looked hurt and confused, while Foreman, Taub and Chase looked on chuckling silently; their eyes lit up with the laughter like Christmas tree lights, but turned their heads in respect.

"Well, I uh-uh…" Was all Masters could muster as an incoherent response.

"All kidding aside," House commented as he picked up a file from the table and fingered through the pages of one. "Burn that outfit." He glanced up at her seriously up at her from the file in his hand. "Or I will." He looked both sinister and serious. Masters looked like she was going to cry at any moment. "And stop getting you little sister to pick out your clothes." House put the file down and addressed everyone at the table. "Male, 37, complaining of chest-pain in the upper-left quadrant." He looked around at everyone. "Any suggestions?" House looked bored and sat reclined in his chair, feet up on the table tapping his fingers on the handle of his cane. All his associates looked confused. Chase began listing all the obvious reasons for non-specific chest pain.

"Costocondriatis, cardial infarction, angina, inflammation, gall stones…" Chase's confusion peaked. "This is not a diagnostics case. A nurse could fix this case." His Australian accent was thick, as it had always been. "Just pain medication, EKG to rule out the infarction, and sonogram to see if it's gall stones. If not that, X-ray." He looked at his colleagues seated around him for agreement. He knew they concurred when Foreman nodded to him and Taub looked bored- leaned to one side and twirling around a pen between his fingers like a baton. Masters was nervously chewing on her finger nails. House looked at them, the uneasiness was back.

"Thank you Tweedle-dumb, Tweedle-Dumber and moron." He said sarcastically. House looked at Masters and caught sight of her outfit and scoffed once more. "And you- do I really need to say it?" House examined each of their faces. House stood again. "Let's look at the evidence. Random pains, colds, flu, broken bones. Any of these could be fixed by a first year." He scattered the files angrily across the table.

"Thirteen is missing and not a single brilliant or sorry excuse is given." House grabbed his cane with a firm grip and slammed it on the table. Something wasn't right about the whole scheme of things. He watched his team carefully for reactions to the reverberating noise and he saw Masters give the biggest shudder and saw her breath hitch in her chest as her eyes shut. House made his way down the line. He passed Taub, relying at this point heavily on his cane his right leg. He padded his pocket for comfort, knowing his Vicodins were always on standby for him. What the hell? He could bear another five minutes. "I arrive at work. Cuddy doesn't hound me about clinic hours and Foreman is in the elevator. First I thought, coincidence, until I noticed Mrs. Foreman here." House jabbed Taub's side with his cane. "Wasn't with you. You were already in your doctor's garb and threatening me with the tenth floor, _two_ hours than before you were even supposed to be here today." House leaned on the back of Foreman's chair and stayed silent for a moment to give Foreman a moment to retort. But Foreman was too interested in seeing where this would all lead to. House continued.

"And Chase, usually the outspoken one miraculously has nothing to say today and unless the formaldehyde from your Brazilian Blowout hair-care regimen finally fried your British brain cells," House admired Chase's thick blonde hair for a moment. "I find it unlikely."

Chase leaned back in the chair. "People could simply be tired you know." Then he gave a slightly irritated look. "And I'm not British I'm-"

"Yes, yes. Koala-huggers aside, you're never quiet. I don't care if you're on Twitter, you're still speaking. May I finish!" He punctuated each word. It wasn't a question.

Chase shrugged, "Fire away, Sherlock." House stopped beside Master's.

"But my biggest clue was you." He tapped her shoulder, her eyes stayed glue to the table. "No speaking, whatsoever." House walked around the table to get a better glance at her face. "No come-backs, no attention drawing," He stopped when he looked at her outfit. "Besides the obvious flaws." He stood across from her and spoke, leaned over the table. "Obvious jerkiness, accelerated heart-rate." He stared at her some more. Her eyes were still as wide as a deer in the headlights, though she was attempting to prove him wrong at that moment and look him in the eyes, but couldn't keep gaze from averting. He stared in silence at her squinting, trying to see when she would look away. Like a scene in a movie with a cop interrogation scene, he starred her down. "Who are you trying to protect!" A switch of the head to the left, he got out his flashlight on the end of his key chain and shined the LED light in her face with intensity she didn't expect in a bright room. "Is it Wilson?"

Masters stared straight on trying to focus on her breathing. "Doctor House. This is really unprofessional…" Her voice faded as House switched moods with all the improvising of a skilled actor.

"Just answer the question!" He all but shouted, continuing his plethora of questions. "Is it Cuddy?" He continued in the same tone of his 'hushed' yelling to get a rise out of her. She stared and stared, but at the mention of the name; she looked back to her colleagues silently pleading. House smiled and cut off the flashlight. "Thank you so much." House responded, earning a cure for his curiosity. "I'm off to Cuddy's." They all clamored towards the door, crying urgently.

"No!"

"Wait!"

"It's not what you think!"

But once the glass door closed automatically and they were sure House was beyond hearing distance, the panic instantly died and they all sat back down at the table except for Foreman. Masters' stayed in her seat the entire time, looking around confused at her companions. They had told her there was a sick patient close to Cuddy that was brought to the hospital, that House would waste no time in making the visitor's stay a trip from Hell.

"Why did you guys stop?" Masters continued her bewildered stare at each of the men in the room that refused to have the decency to return the gaze or even a simple answer. Chase continued to read the morning paper, while Foreman stood and was writing something down in a file, as Taub itched his elbow and stared at the clock. "Is anyone going to tell me why no one tried to stop House from going to Cuddy? He could jeopardize this whole-" She stood, pointing out the door as no one's attention was gained by the accusations in the questions she asked. Something in her mind clicked.

"There never was a friend of Cuddy's, was there?" Masters asked. She sat down and pondered to herself silently why she felt she had felt better when House was berating the way she dressed herself every day. Chase folded the paper and looked at her, not particularly proud with what he'd done.

"I'm honestly surprised, Masters." He sounded like a Bond villain that was about to reveal the entire plot. Everyone except Masters made their moves to prepare themselves in the precious few moments that were left for their own use before their rounds actually began.

"I thought you'd figure it out a lot sooner and cave with your sense of justice." Taub commented offhand as he picked up the scattered files House had angrily flung across the table only a few minutes prior. Masters felt tricked; betrayed as she clasped her hands together over her lap with her head bowed; not knowing how she should truly feel. When she arrived at work this morning, Taub had urgently pulled her to the side and told her the story of what they were hiding from House and she had felt foolish about lying to her boss about a thing that had anything to do with his personal life. What had ultimately made her accept was the fact that she felt like she had been accepted enough to be let in on the inside track of part of what was really going on at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. She finally felt that she belonged. Instead, she had defended a false story, given to make her seem extremely foolish; a laughing stock.

_Good lord, _she thought, _it's her public school years all over again._

"Why didn't you tell me the truth?" She asked to everyone in ear shot. Chase was the only one remained seated, as in the middle of her question Taub had finished ordering the folders and made a run to return them. "I mean, I know he's mean and I know sometimes he can be pretty bitter, but it's his _life_ we're screwing with!" She ranted to Chase who seemed to be only half-listening. Chase shushed her by holding his hand up.

"House doesn't need to know and it'll probably just get all of us fired." He told her sternly. Masters looked back down at her hands, then back to Chase.

"You aren't really going to tell me what's going on, are you?" She inquired in a mono-toned voice. Chase shook his head. "And what if I can't live with myself?" Chase pushed his chair out and looked at her seriously.

"Then maybe you need to find a new career." Chase pursed his lips and got to his feet. It was true; he did feel slightly guilty. The look she gave him, he would've probably likened to having to explain to a child that there was no Santa Claus, Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny all at the same time. He just couldn't remain there staring into her bright eyes one more second. He wanted to tell her: It wasn't just them; it was human nature. That everybody lied. He left her sitting there, walking passed Foreman still at the phone. Foreman picked up the receiver and punched in several digits. When the opposite end picked up, he began to speak.

"Cuddy? It's Foreman. House is coming up.

But House never made it to his boss, Lisa Cuddy's, office. He limped excitedly down the hallway, contemplating pranks the whole way, once he found out what she'd kept from him. He'd been walking the opposite way from Cuddy's office, smelling the strong anti-bacterial and anti-septics the janitor had employed on the dark linoleum floors. Then when he couldn't decide on anything in particular he got a grand idea. Wilson. He'd run some of his best plots by his only close friend at Princeton-Plainsboro and he'd surely help him decide which method of retribution would be the most appropriate. Besides, if Cuddy had a secret, he was almost certain she would've definitely blabbed something about it to him. He walked like a mad man with a mission. The horrible feeling he'd had this morning had completely been obliterated from his mind, replaced instead by multiple, possible courses of action to take. He rounded a corner just ahead of Wilson's office. A few more offices to pass by and he'd reach his destination. He could feel the extra energy running through his veins. He lived for two reasons lately, Vicodin and making others angry.

He knew he'd get Wilson to talk as he scuffed his sneakers outside the door against the floor to announce his arrival. He heard some scuffling of Wilson's own on the other side of the door. He opened up the door swiftly and entered just in time to see Wilson getting up from behind his desk, where House could clearly see he was dealing with a patient.

"Jimmy! I'm home!" He announced. He stepped quickly to try to see how close to the desk he could get before Wilson stopped him. Wilson met him six feet from the door. "Why Jimmy," He said in mock-shock. "I thought you knew it was not appropriate to do internal exams in your office without another doctor present." He tried to chide Wilson like an authority figure, before he added hastily, "At least that's what Cuddy keeps telling me." He tried to get a look at the patient's face to see if she was as perfect from the front as she looked from the back. Long blonde hair, an hour glass figure; aside from her jeans being a little too big, he thought about asking her out himself. Wilson looked flabbergasted by House inexplicable appearance, knowing he should be led on a wild-goose chase by his team and Cuddy by now.

"You can't be here, now." Wilson tried to push House back towards the door to usher him out. House pushed against his friend's strong hands, using his cane to stay balanced.

"Help! Help! Handicap abuse!" House cried in a soprano's tone similar to a female's. "Okay, okay. I get it Wilson. You want to be alone." He stopped pushing and Wilson's hands dropped, but the patient still hadn't looked back at her. "I just needed you to sign this." House pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, which Wilson accepted.

"Alright. If I sign this, you'll leave?" Wilson questioned as he unfolded the paper and began reading it. "Are you sure this is the right one? This is just a Geico Insurance estimate…" Wilson suddenly caught on to House's plan but as he looked up to find whether it was a mistake or not, House was already walking to the patient.

"House!" He called, angered and inexplicably terrified at the same time. He ran after House, just as he stood three feet from the patient and called to her. "Hey!"

The young woman's attention was drawn to House, she turned. She really was young-looking in the face, beautiful and pale, but she was exactly as House remembered her. She spoke timidly.

"Hello, Greg." She greeted. House walked backwards towards the door, turning white as a sheet. He looked at her like some ghost from his past. Once he reached the still-open door, he turned and slammed it shut. Wilson held his head in his hands, unsure of what to do; unsure of what House was capable of. House didn't speak but stood silently for a few moments, his face changing from one of terror to a look of fury. His eyes narrowed at Wilson. House ignored the woman's greeting, and walked slowly towards Wilson, his brow furrowed in anger. It was evident at that very moment of time, that House hated Wilson. At long last, he spoke.

"Why the hell is she here?"


	4. Eh Tu, James? Eh tu?

_**Chapter 4: Eh tu, James, eh tu?**_

* * *

><p>"Why is she here?" House pointed his cane at the girl sitting calmly across the room. Wilson's excuse he had ready in his mind for a moment such as this, was a no-show. The fear petrified him so deeply that when he mentally went looking for the excuse he had already prepared, he could still seeing the door swinging from shut in his mind's eye. He grasped for straws, any straws, any reason House might spare his life; but he wasn't thinking House would fall for the the one in a million chance that she just happened to look similar to his old girlfriend and wasn't actually his ex-girlfriend. House stood, fuming heavy breaths. "By all means, take your time, and make this one<em><strong> really<strong>_ good, Judas."

There was no good excuse. What he was doing, was, in some perspectives, no better than the way House saw them.

Wilson turned his attention to the woman sitting infront of him and found a cure and a dilemma in one sentence, "I'm sorry, will you excuse us for one second?" He smiled courteously to her and she nodded as he round his office desk and walked toward House, who seemed to him like a statue that watched his every move. Once he opened the door, Wilson tried to lead House out by gently touching his shoulder. House recoiled like Wilson's fingertips scalded his skin and branded him forever. In the few seconds it took for him to follow House's back walk out the door, Wilson couldn't seem to shake the look on House's face from his mind. It was like his touch had shocked him that thought had pained him greatly.

"I know what you're going to say, so before you go and say it…" Wilson tried his best to reason with House and be respectful of everyone wandering the halls at the same time; patients, grieving family members, nurses and other doctors scurried by in rapid succession compared to the stroll pace they walked, where grass would grow two inches at least in whatever destination they arrived at.

"Please," House interrupted. "Please tell me how I'm supposed to react to this, cause really, I'd like to know!" House took a gasping breath of air and inched his cane away from his place and leaned into Wilson's face. His tone wasn't lowered, but was kept loud enough for all to hear like he didn't give a damn if any of their surroundings reverberated their voices off the wall and threw it back at them. "Why is she here, Wilson!" He deemed it worth reiterating once more.

Wilson stood awkwardly, one hand in his pocket as the other one raked his fingers through his thick, brunette hair. "Look. I flew her here because she needed help. Unlike you, I have a thing called a conscious and I just can't over-dose to get it to shut up." He cleared his throat as he realized that may've been the wrong thing to say. He couldn't read anything on House's face other than rage, dislike and a hint of pure hatred. "Whatever happened between you two is all in the past and its irrelevant now."

"Irrelevant? She ruined my life!" House shouted. Wilson lowered his voice as they walked at a snail's pace down the hall. Wilson tried to shush him.

"Something tells me you're exaggerating. By how much, I'm not sure." Wilson looked at him. House's face seemed to release its tension. Wilson watched as House seemed to see a light glint in his eye, like some new flash of understanding. As if something got across his mind. Instead, House moved faster than Wilson could react and smashed the end of his cane against his shin, hard. Wilson held himself against the wall- groaning and hissing through his teeth in pain.

House faked sympathy as Wilson fought the urge to fall to his knees and cry. House looked at him. "You alright, Jimmy?"

"I may never walk again." He held his hands over his legs, protectively. "Did you cripple me to prove a point!"

House flipped his cane in his fingers. "Awe, you're exaggerating, Jimmy." He gave a look of triumph as he watched his compatriot on grasping his knee and hissing through his teeth in pain. House stood watching everyone going by, some with the intention of offering Wilson help, but were warded off by House's death-glare. Once the pain became bearable Wilson slowly got back to his feet.

"You're a self-centered ass, you know that?" Wilson announced. House looked indifferent.

"And you're a back-stabbing, interfering schmuck." House retorted.

"She needed help, and I'm going to help her." Wilson answered finally, raising his hands at his side.

"Says the saint of Princeton-Plainsboro." House felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins, that seemed to take him over and make his hand wander into his pocket to pull out a Vicodin and pop it in his mouth and swallowed it dry. House felt the eyes of the staff and patients gathering around him with hushed whispers of passers-by who saw 'what started it all.' Just as they decided to continue the argument, they heard the sound of a small sob from behind them. At first, Wilson and House stared ahead as though it could've just been another patient with a cold or upper-respiratory infection. A feeling inside told them not to ignore it and to turn around in unison.

There was Erin looking at them both with blatant disbelief written across her face. She was standing 5 doors away, in front of an office from where they now stood. Slowly, she adjusted her handbag uneasily onto her shoulder and walked towards them both with downcast eyes. Once she uncomfortably readjusted her purse again, she offered her hand out to James, who looked bewildered. Awkwardly, he took it in his own hand. She began to speak, noticeably without a glance at House.

"Doctor Wilson, it was really nice of you to meet with me and for everything you've done, but I feel there's nothing you can really do for me here." She wiped the back of her free hand across her forehead. Wilson noticed her hand was shaking as he held it. "I can see it's not not going to work out." For the first time since she's been in his presence, she shifted her eyes at House and then as quick as possible, back to Wilson. "Thank you for your time and everything else."

Erin then turned on her heels and walked away from them. Neither House nor Wilson uttered a single syllable until she turned a corner and was out of sight.

"Okay," House began. "I get it. For ditching you, you wanted to get back at me by bringing her here, because you knew I didn't want to see her." House moved his cane to the crook of his arm and clapped his hands together mockingly. "Bravo. Belicema. Joke's over; I'll never do it again." He rolled his eyes as his sentence finished.

Wilson's brows narrowed in frustration and confusion. "What 'joke'? Erin?"

"Well, how many other people do you have in your office that have written me a letter that you saw I obviously didn't care about?" House gripped the handle of his cane like a stress ball with both hands; trying to control himself from using it as a bat and trying to land a home rum with Wilson's face. He inhaled deeply. "Wilson, I'm only going to say this once." Every word that escaped his mouth was dripping with disdain. "Send her back." Suddenly there were shouts of panic and chaos in their vicinity from multiple people.

"Somebody get help!"

"Call a doctor!"

"Is she alright?"

House and Wilson walked as fast as they could. They walked down the hall and around the corner to the elevators. There was a crowd of professionally dressed people, circled around something. House and Wilson pushed their way through the small crowd, to see Erin writhing and shaking uncontrollably on the blue carpet in the office in an obvious fit of a seizure. House glanced around to see if there were any of the doctors on this floor. But as luck would go, all the doctors seemed to be missing conspicuously; as though they couldn't be bothered unless they had personally seen the patient's medical insurance card. He assessed the situation quickly and the sight before him was perplexing. Erin's whole body shook as her eyes stayed open vacantly staring, taking in none of it. Blood was emerging from her nose and coating over her mouth and going into her hair. Wilson quickly reacted and grabbed the leather jacket from House's shoulders and bundled it up, creating a makeshift pillow. He shoved it under her head, to lessen the blows from her repeatedly hammering into the floor. When she stopped suddenly and her eyes closed, Wilson pulled a perscription pad from his back, pant's pocket and a pen out of his shirt pocket. He ripped off a page and looked at his watch and jotted some notes down. He then grasped her wrist and took her pulse looking once more to his watch.

House thought back to every memory he had of Erin. Every episode of her being sick that he remembered, he had no recollection of this. He stared at her bloody face, as Wilson talked to a woman telling her to get some help from downstairs.

"Erin isn't an epileptic." House stated aloud to himself, watching as Erin laid silently on the floor; bloody and still. It seemed someone had spread the word about the incident somehow and a few more people gathered to watch. Wilson sighed heavily, hearing House's drifting thoughts.

"I know she isn't." Wilson answered as he monitored her sitting on his knees at her side, watching her shallow breathing. A ding sounded at the elevator and two male nurses stepped out with a wheel chair. Since the elevator was normal sized and would not fit a gurney in it. That just meant they would have to wait until she was partially conscious. The younger of the two nurses, handed Wilson a pair of gloves and a woman had run quickly to the bathroom to get some toilet tissue for the blood on her face. Wilson wiped the blood away carefully and tried to get as much as he could off her face, when she erupted into a coughing fit. Wilson gave orders to take her to an exam room until he was able to come down. Meanwhile House found himself feeling rather odd; watching Wilson with Erin seemed like some dream he wasn't able to wake up from and he stared with an oblique expression on his face. Simply staring ahead as though he had found a tunnel that expanded the more he watched it.

Erin began to come around as Wilson held her hand. She looked petrified and shook subtly all over. Tremors or cold chills, House wondered to himself. Erin's eyelids fluttered open slowly, catching sight of Wilson, then around her at all the lights, people, and mediocre scenic paintings that can be found at any office place. Wilson watched her carefully as the small group of on-lookers dispersed, some knew that in their work field- it was the most excitement they'll have all day, others were ashamed suddenly as they left; probably now knowing she could watch them too.

"Erin," Wilson demanded her attention, and she almost snapped her sore neck to look at him. "Do you know where you are?"

Her attention began to drift off as she mumbled incoherently. "H-hos-pital." She stammered, trying to stand. Wilson held her down.

"No, no, no, honey. Don't try to get up, yet." He told her calmly. He proceeded to ramble off questions to make her more coherent and awake, and after a few minutes, she spoke almost as well as she did before. Wilson smiled and was filled with relief; House smiled inwardly for an unknown reason to him, but remained nonchalantly standing, now leaning on a wall. "Erin, you think you can make it to the chair?" Wilson asked holding her hand.

House plotted a murder scenario silently, and damned the police for taking his gun license since that incident where he shot a corpse in the morgue. It still made no sense to him. All the money paid to the deceased's family for funeral costs to take care of the appearance of the body for the funeral.

Erin nodded her head, trying to smile at him. But couldn't pull it off because It didn't reach her eyes. Wilson returned the smile, trying to put her more at ease.

"You probably have quite a lump on your head after that. So to be on the safe side, I'm going to order a CAT scan for you." Wilson brushed his palm across her forehead to sweep some hair out of her eyes, but brought the hand back to her forehead quickly. His smile faded suddenly as he realized how foolish he was. He'd thought all this time the tremors were from the oncoming seizure, and then thought the residual shaking from the seizure. Her forehead was burning up. He cleared his throat.

"Erin, you've got a fever, but we're going to bring it down." Wilson assured her as he helped her up himself and got her transferred from the floor to the wheelchair. As the nurse began to push her into the elevator, Erin spoke.

"Who's jacket is this?" Looking at the black leather jacket that had been worn thoroughly through the years, she clenched her fingers tightly around it, secretly already having an idea.

House completely ignored her. Wilson again cleared his throat in the awkward silence.

"Why don't you just hold onto that? Might need a pillow again on the way to the room." His smile this time, failed to be mirrored back by her. Her eyes were just fixated on House with a look Wilson couldn't recognize. Yet House continued ignoring her very existence again, by watching the elevators with obvious faked interest. Erin swallowed hard and tried to smooth back her hair into place by finger combing it backwards. She muttered her appreciation, and Wilson reassured her he would see her momentarily.

Once she was gone, House's gaze met Wilson's.

"I'll arrange a transfer to another hospital." House began walking quickly, with his cane as his focal point to keep him on some sane level. "You got blood on my jacket, Jimmy. Better get to Shouting it out." House tried lying to himself verbally, and aloud as well, thinking his long time friend would understand, ship her off, and life would be somewhat like the normal Hell he was used to instead of this new upgrade in depravity.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say House." Wilson felt a kind of rage himself begin to bubble in his veins. Just below the surface, they were both active volcanoes. "I'll just make an ambulance rush her to the nearest morgue, cause that's the only place she'll make it to if she leaves here." Wilson scoffed.

"Not my problem, anymore." House muttered, not intending on any particular point of stopping anywhere inside the hospital, though his leg screamed for him to stop. Sweat began to form on his face, that he forced away with the brush of his arm. He looked down at his t-shirt and looked unprofessional, even in his eyes.

"Well, now it's too late for Erin to go anywhere." Once Wilson had used her name to him in private for the first time to refer to her, something inside him snapped. House turned around quickly limping horribly.

"So now it's 'Erin' is it!" House exclaimed smacking his cane into the glass covered frame of a painting. He walked closer to Wilson at a break neck pace, even for him. "I wonder what else you've been swapping , before I showed up. I can't believe you've done this to me!" House shook with rage, aware how ridiculous he sounded with anger; unsure of how to describe the depth of this betrayal.

"She's a person, House!" Wilson's anger was building, feeling the tense air between them like they were going to create a bigger rift than the San Andrea's Fault. Wilson's calm exterior crumbled. "I just met her, today! Why is it going to kill you to see her get saved? No matter what she did, is it worth letting her die for? To not give her a chance?"

"You stabbed me in the back! I told you it was none of your business! None of your business! But you meddled anyway!"

"What did you expect me to do?" Wilson yelled as House turned a corner to a hall that was blocked by a thick, plastic curtain, and an orange sign that deemed it under construction.

"I expected you to stay the hell out of my life!"

Wilson's face looked like a bullet just hit him in the chest. He hated fights with House, but this? No best friend should speak to each other like this.

House regretted instantly, inwardly, what he'd said in his moment of anger. But he couldn't let Wilson know that, and he couldn't think of the reason why he couldn't apologize to him. It was his daily poison, to hurt somebody. It was a savoir and a thing that killed him slowly, that he had to have. It seemed he had two addictions. He raised a hand to his forehead., trying to gain back some rationality, only to find he'd been passed the point of no return a few choice phrases ago. His heavy breathing was the only sound between them. House stood silently trying to figure out a way to change the subject, swiftly and casually.

Meanwhile, Wilson stood his ground; awaiting House's next verbal attack.

"How did you know she wasn't an epileptic?" House asked, quietly. Wilson shrugged, flabbergasted, unknowing where this conversation was going anymore. But that was House, he remembered, unpredictable.

"Because she told me. I've got an MRI and an EEG scheduled for first thing in the morning." Wilson sighed and massaged his temple. "Her medical records are on my desk, I've got about half of them. Cuddy has the rest because my fax broke in the middle of them being sent over." He felt a headache coming on and work wasn't even half-way over.

"Cuddy knows about this?" He could hear the phone ringing already, in his mind. "And if Cuddy knows, I'm assuming my whole team knows." Wilson's silence was taken as an agreement. He turned back and began walking towards their point of origin. "Fine. I'll find out what it is, to shut up Cuddy, my team, and your morally reprehensible conscience. Once she shows improvement, she's gone." House was making a deal as much as an itinerary, all written on his own terms which left no room for Wilson to argue.

"Fine." He relented. House felt proud of himself. Arguing outright had ultimately been faster and more satisfying than his normal debate methods with Cuddy. They both began walking back, this time with Wilson ahead in a silent form of 'follow the leader'. Neither spoke to the other, the entire way back to Wilson's office. Wilson praying for an apology, and House wishing he could give him one.

House assumed he had the basis for the case that there were unexplained seizures and that Erin had been stashed away in Wilson's office, while he was supposed to be distracted by his team who tried to get him to go to Cuddy where he should've been lead on some scavenger hunt. If he hadn't strayed to get Wilson's opinion, he would've been somewhat normal.

As they reached Wilson's office door, House could see some of the office doors cracked a little. Probably to listen to their argument for tomorrow's office gossip. He decided to let them have their fun and not slam some of the doors open where it was obvious people were leaning with their ears to the door. Though House's anger was still simmering for what happened, but it wasn't as noticeable to some point.

They entered the office and House sat in the chair opposite Wilson's desk, as Wilson walked around his office quickly gathering papers, moving from one spot in the room to another, compiling an office folder.

"I have most of her records here that she brought,. Some are in Cuddy's office and previous MRI's are getting sent by UPS and should be here sometime tomorrow." Wilson suddenly stopped moving for a moment and looked at House head-on and slowly handed the file to House. "The MRIs date back to about 2 years ago, when she was involved in a car accident. She recently ran out of insurance, she says, so that's why it's not up to date." Wilson took a deep breath and sat down behind his desk, across from House who said nothing. Wilson handed him the file, and he reached across to grab it.

"I know you're not happy with me right now. I want you to know, I am your friend. But I'm also still a doctor." Wilson sat down and signed off on an order for some Ativan to be given to Erin. Also some Ibuprofen and some Dilantin and Depakote to bring down the fever and prevent future seizures. Then some morphine for pain. House sighed, annoyed.

"Do I have time to get my I-pod, or do I play weepy air-guitar right here?" House's sarcasm had returned, at least. Wilson almost felt sorry for anyone who made him angry tonight. Wilson looked at him again.

"I'm not sorry I brought her here, but I am sorry to you for one thing. Whether you care about her-" Wilson decided to humor him. As House stared back about to release another quip his way. "Or you don't; this next bit of news isn't all that wonderful anyway you slice it." Wilson tried to stay calm as he felt his blood pressure rise, seeing House both loudly and nasally, plucking the strings of an imaginary guitar that seemed to be able to play "Every Rose Has A Thorn".

"House," Wilson stood up. "Erin has cancer."

The humming stopped. House unintentionally had stopped breathing, not making a sound or movement. He shouldn't care, he chided himself. He got his wish and at the same time was using wishes to take that wish back. The folder in his lap spilled it's contents to the floor.

"What?" He asked. Wilson took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, House. It's cancer."

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><p><em><strong>And I'm back. Sorry the update took so long. I have this story completely planned out and have hand written 8 chapters in all so far, but I rarely get the opportunity to type them up for you. So I beg for your patience. This story will have drama, humor, and BIG twists that's mostly medically accurate. Please Keep Reviewing!<strong>_

_**- Visions of Paradise**_


	5. Setting Boundaries

_**Chapter 5: Setting Boundaries**_

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><p>The hospital seemed as it did any other day; patients were waiting to be seen, janitors' custodial duties seemed incessant, but something was buzzing through the air like static that couldn't be ignored. Throughout each floor of Princeton-Plainsboro Medical Teaching Hospital, was the hushed gossip about the scene that played out the previous night between House and Wilson. Its force hit the staff like a tidal wave.<p>

Doctor Chris Taub's ears were no exception. It seemed no one was impervious to its scandalous seduction, he thought as he rode the elevator up to House's conference room, where Masters waited patiently. He found it a little a little odd that she was the only one so far to arrive, but remembered what a people-pleaser she was and dismissed it. Yet still he pondered, as he set down his clinic folders at his spot chosen on the table, if he should tell her it was a tremendous waste of time with House. He walked on ahead to the counter space and made himself a cup of coffee. Apparently from her quiet disposition but her antsy movements in her chair, he gathered she had something to talk about. He noticed as he sat down across from her, how her eyes had darted from him and back to the wall from the moment he had entered the office. Maybe she had been waiting early for him. He juggled the idea of going ahead and getting out of her whatever she wanted out in the open, partially because he would feel sorry for her if she took whatever it was up with House. Once he was seated, he deemed it alright to open the conversation with her.

"What is it?" Taub seemed uninterested as he moved his fingers over the edge of the numerous papers, an old technique from his days as a plastic surgeon, used to signify how busy and important he was. Masters timidly took a sharp inhale of breath.

"I think what you guys did to me was wrong." She stated, while she was looking at her hands folded on the table, trying to stop her anxious shaking. She usually was being the one to avoid causing argument at all costs. Taub tried to remember what was so wrong, blinking at her uncertainly.

"Well, House was right about the outfit. I'm sorry but sometimes people have to hear what hurts." Taub offered. Masters clicked her black clog heels together under the table.

"It wasn't just the clothes remarks." She released a breath she'd unintentionally been holding, coming to the conclusion she had nothing left to lose. She laid her cards before him. "I mean, Doctor Taub, that I'm planning on becoming a full physician as well and as such, I think I deserve more respect." Taub had listened to her tirade with little interest as he stared at the counter beyond her. Once he realized she was finished, he tried for some viable retort.

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way. But if we had told you, you would've blabbed in a moment."

"Of course, I would've. Is it so hard for everyone to believe that the truth makes things so much easier?" Masters stood and began pouring herself a cup of coffee. "It's morally and ethically reprehensible." Taub watched her for a moment and saw as she glanced at him a flicker of hope in her eye that he, himself, had not seen in anyone in a long time. He felt sorry for her.

"Listen, if you feel you deserve more respect, you're going to have to do something yourself about it. You can't just sit around and tell people what you think you deserve. You have to get it for yourself." Taube answered her truthfully, hoping she would listen to his hard to take advice. "Otherwise, you're just setting yourself up for failure and being the victim every time."

"So, if I stay true to what I believe, I fail." Masters pondered the conundrum out loud to Taub and herself. "But if I start lying and acting like the rest of you, then I fail myself." She looked at Taub as though he could just pluck the answer from the sky, like it was easy as addition. Instead, Taub just shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, that's what we define as stuck between a rock and a hard place." Taub responded as the door swung open and Foreman, Thirteen and Chase walked in. "You guys are just in time." Taub greeted, glancing over at them all as they took their seats.

"In time for what?" Thirteen looked with interest between Taub and Masters. Masters automatically shook her head no frantically.

"It seems Dr. Masters has a personal grievance with all of us." Taub offered up the information freely. Chase looked up from his Starbucks cup in amusement.

"You're kidding right?" He asked with a smirk as Taub inhaled his coffee while shaking his head no. While Masters struggled to speak at all, only managing a long stutter of incoherent, incomplete sounds that dribbled from her lips.

"Look," Thirteen commanded. "I understand how you feel obligated to do the right thing, but I also understand how House can be. That's just how he is and he's not going to change. It also isn't going to change that despite his sarcasm or eccentricities they don't deflect from the fact that he is actually well respected. You can change your clothes, or just listen to me when I say that even though his way about doing things isn't always unquestionable, he's usually always right." She offered.

_**Oh God,**_ Masters thought, _**why does everyone always think it's my outfit!**_

Masters just decided to forget it for now and take it up with House later. Now that thought made her even more nervous. House, maybe, might be in a good mood. But if the whispers she was hearing about him were correct, she shouldn't count on that being any time soon.

"Hey, get that look out of your eye and that thought out of your mind." Foreman spoke up, observing how Masters became intensely quiet and distant, unexpectedly.

"What thought?" Masters inquired in her most innocent voice. So it was very unfortunate her acting skills were extremely lacking. Everyone watched her as though fixated by a sight none of them had seen anywhere before.

"The one that's in your brain about going to House." Foreman looked at her protectively like a big brother. "I'm telling you for your own good, and," He hesitated for a noticeable moment, but decided to go ahead and continue. "For physical safety." Foreman looked at the rest of the team and leaned forward over the table and continued speaking in a hushed tone like the walls were even trying to listen in. "I heard after he discovered she was here that he remodeled Wilson's office- with his cane." Thirteen smirked and folded her arms across her chest, listening intently to the rumors circling about her boss, not knowing whether or not they were fact or fiction. House was capable of both extremes, and it troubled her to think about it.

"I heard House punched Wilson and had to be escorted from the building by security and went on an all night bender where he stole a Porsche and rammed it a couple of times into a brick wall." Chase added. Everyone looked back at him, skeptically. Tina in reception told me." He shrugged and went back to nursing his Starbucks cup, only to spit it out a moment later.

"I heard he turned green, grew twelve feet tall, tore off his shirt and fired a gossipy bunch of doctors who sat around telling rumors about their boss instead of doing their damn jobs." House stated bitterly, not a second after he entered the door in complete silence. Everyone seated at the table looked bewildered and amazed at his hearing ability, left unsure of what to do. House took it upon himself to break the sound barrier. "Bernice in admitting told me that one." House did his best to put on a mask of casualness, despite his still coursing anger and feelings of betrayal from his team. His cane guided his path to the dry-erase board at the head of the conference table and proceeded to wrote: Fever, seizures, abdominal pain, headaches, fatigue and lastly, Lymphoma. He reflected the whole term in his head: _subcutaneous panniculitis-like T-cell lymphoma._ Once more, everyone seated looked confused, so Foreman designated himself to speak.

"House, I'm not sure what you want us to do. Her case is solved. It's Lymphoma, it's cancer. All we can do is control the symptoms."

"No." House insisted. "We can cure." He stood back and seemed to be admiring all the symptoms he'd written like some intriguing puzzle instead of turning around to face his coworkers.

"Um, I don't know if you've heard, but there is no cure for cancer." Taub remarked, blatantly.

"I'm aware of that. Now are you going to do your job or do House fire Taub?" House responded in his best Hulk impression. No one answered. "Fine, I'll make it easier for you." House erased the word **LYMPHOMA** off his board of written symptoms. If only things worked that simply, House mused as he quietly put the dry eraser on the tray at the base of the board. He then turned with an expectant look on his face that was an open invitation for anyone to begin talking constructively. Thirteen began.

"Is she a previous epileptic?"

"No. Seizures started 2 years ago after the onset of the symptoms." House had begun patient Q & A.

"Any family history of disease?" Taub asked.

"High blood pressure and heart disease. Just about the only two things she doesn't have yet."

"When was the last MRI or CAT scan taken and did they show anything unusual?" Masters asked.

"MRI was taken this morning, but nothing of special note was found." House answered her question as he tapped the file on the table infront of him. Masters noticed that House's demeanor had changed temporarily. For whatever reason, House answered each question straight-forward, if not a little blunt, without comebacks or useless sarcastic banter. He hadn't even trashed her clothing choices today.

Masters opened her mouth, and then quickly closed it again. Foreman caught her sudden movement in his peripheral. He kicked her in the shin and shook his head at her, but Masters' eyes remained defiant.

"Just let it go." Foreman mouthed silently to Masters, but her stubborn sense of self-righteousness shone through, annoyingly. And before Foreman realized what was going on, it was too late to try to save her.

"Doctor House?" Masters cleared her throat. Thirteen instantly shut her mouth instead of trying to continuing with her next questions. Everyone turned their attention to Masters silently pleading with their eyes for her to keep her mouth shut. "I'm sorry about yesterday with Ms. Richardson." House's back was turned towards her again as she decided to speak a little louder so even if he didn't respect her opinion- he'd be able to hear it. "But maybe this case isn't in your best interest."

House turned towards her slowly, glaring like a rattlesnake about to strike; all the warning signs had been ignored. Her pride blinded her judgment as she kept treading closer. Completely oblivious to the sign telling her to keep off the grass and she couldn't hear the rattle that grew louder in her ears with each step- each word kept her sidetracked and made her keep going. Her brain made her keep speaking.

"There's nothing we can do but keep her-"

House slammed his cane on the table and the thunderous noise made her shut her mouth and jump back nervously, and the sound resounded through the office. Once the echo died, there was silence.

"Did you ever wonder why they call a mouth a trap?" He took her petrified vegetable-like state of shock as having no answer. "Because sometimes we say something that betrays us and we can't backtrack to make it all better." He watched as she opened her mouth and heard the garbled sound of words forming that reminded him of a fish gasping for air. He quashed her speaking attempts immediately. "Shut up!" Masters' mouth snapped shut. Everyone seemed frozen as though they were watching a car crash. He walked closer to her slowly, like approaching prey.

"I've taken all I can of your know-nothing innocence and simpleton trust issues and had enough of your trashy, failed rebellion-recession look." Masters felt her lip begin to quiver as she felt herself on the edge of crying and telling him how undeservedly mean he was being. "It's none of your business what case I decide to take on, that's why I'm the boss and you're not. Because if you were, everyone would be too much of a moron to be able to comprehend when to shut the hell up and not be able to fix a pricked finger because they wouldn't know to get it out of their ass first. If you were any stupider, we'd have to put you in a hole and water you twice a week." She looked at the table and felt his presence easing away, giving her a little space to breathe.

"If you say one more thing to me, you're fired." House spat the final words over his shoulder at her as he made his way back to the dry-erase board. Thirteen continued her questioning, while Taube, Chase and Foreman had watched the scene a moment ago and felt bad for her, but also felt they had given her enough warning that it should've been avoided anyway.

Masters sat at the table, contemplating all the choices she had. House would never change. She could see that now, he was a hard, cranky, sarcastic man with nothing in his life but a job and a bottle of pills and liquor that needed replacing constantly. She bet he probably didn't even own a cat or a hamster. And strangely enough, that made her feel sorry for him. No matter how many lives he's saved that day, or people he cured from diseases that could've altered their lives, at the end of the day- he held nothing.

Thirteen was arguing to House about the effectiveness of some antibiotic, just then, but Masters couldn't be bothered with it. She could tell House where to put the job, or get fired when she screwed up later. Somehow she just knew she'd be at the end of graduating and achieving her dream, and House would step out of the shadows and squash it like a demented dream thief. Maybe it was best to call it quits on her terms, before he called it quits for her on his.

"Doctor House?" Masters spoke up again. House sighed and turned around to face her, looking angered with a mix of something else. To Masters, it looked like it was sadness. She felt sorry for what she was about to say. Everyone watched as she stood up suddenly and stared at each other the table's length apart. No one moved a muscle, both scared and apprehensive about letting her speak. House gave her his full attention. "Go to hell."

"What did you say?" House asked, wondering if she even would be able to repeat it. Also somewhat impressed she had the gall to tell him to do something like that. He could've sworn hockey sticks should've been used somewhere in that sentence. Masters shook with adrenaline and uncertainty. She took a deep, wavering breath.

"I said, 'Go to Hell', sir." House nodded his head.

"We're way passed respectful manners having any ability to count to saving you." He glared again and determinedly walked right to her. "I warned you. I told you not to say anything else?" Masters shook her head. "Then that was a dumb thing for you to do, and we all know it."

"Oh leave her alone for Christ's sake." Chase interrupted. House snapped his fingers and pointed back to Chase.

"Get out of here."

"You're not going to take this out on me because you're having a bad day and someone you care about it sick, House. Just because you become a doctor doesn't mean it protects you and yours from getting sick!" Chase said, standing up. House looked back to him.

"Get out of here!" House yelled at the top of his lungs. Chase put his hands up in a surrendering motion and gathered his satchel and his Starbucks cup and was out the door, scoffing, visibly angered. Foreman and Taub sat exchanging glances with Thirteen who said nothing.

"So why do you want me to go to hell?" House looked at Masters who was trying to backtrack her words to right the situation. "You accept human behavior and try it out, and look. You've done something you're apologizing for already. Well, tell you what. I'm going to do you a favor. Since I know you've probably got this pad picked out in the afterlife where the floor's made of cirrus and cumulous, why don't you get out of here, too?" House asked her in a voice dripping with venom and disdain. She looked into his eyes and never noticed how blue they were.

"You're asking me to leave?" Masters heard herself ask.

"No, I'm saving you." House said with obvious sarcasm. Her momentary strength had vanished and without it, she seemed a lot smaller and petrified. Like a mouse. "You're fired." House added ruthlessly and turned on his heel to walk back to the head of the table beside his dry-erase board. Masters stared in shock down at her white doctor's coat and further down to the blue carpet. She'd never been in actual trouble in anything in her entire life.

"Get out of my hospital." House growled at her over his shoulder.

He finally did it, she thought. She never believed the snake she'd likened him to would actually strike until it was too late. She sniffed as she felt tears forming. Suddenly, she jumped from her seat and ran from the room holding her files tightly to her chest like a life preserver. Her running echoed through the closing glass door.

Taub, Thirteen, and Foreman stared in silence. First at each other for silent reassurance that what they had seen had actually taken place. Then at House's back that heaved silently in great deep breaths.

"What was that?" Foreman voiced the question that was on everyone's minds, but simultaneously he was thanked for having been, at that moment, brave enough to have a voice at all. It was likened to a man holding an umbrella for protection against a hurricane. But Hurricane House wasn't finished yet. He inhaled shakily, still not looking at a single member of his team.

"Anyone who was hoping to get details into my private life can leave now." House searched the intricate puzzle of the words written on the board just in case there was some answer staring him in the face.

"I hate to bring up any sore subjects here, but the only reason Chase was asked to be here was to look over the case and give an opinion, and you asked him to leave." Thirteen waited for anyone to retort. When there was none, she deemed it safe to continue. "I recommend full blood work, another MRI with contrast to search for any abnormalities for the epileptic disorder, ibuprofen for fever and morphine as needed for pain."She listed treatment techniques off on her fingers.

"For containment of the seizures," Foreman spoke up. "Let's try some Dilantin. If that doesn't work, we'll add some Depakote or Tegretol. Hopefully that'll keep them under control. We need to get an EEG to monitor to see if the seizures are coming from an injury or if it actually is epilepsy." He searched House's body language for any agreement or disagreement.

"Doctor Wilson has her on 600 milligrams of Dilantin and 1000 milligrams of Depakote for seizure control." Taub read looking down at Erin's vanilla folder in his hands. "And Wilson ordered an EEG and an MRI for this morning. It came back normal." Taub answered searching through his file until he found the combination X-ray and radiologist's report and scanned over it quickly with his eyes before he handed the papers and X-rays to Foreman who took immediate interest.

"Normal for an epileptic?" Thirteen asked.

"No. Normal as in there shouldn't be any seizures." Taub answered, looking intrigued. "This is so far looking like a result from head trauma." When House finally turned around to face them, Thirteen searched his face for any emotions she could read that showed somehow that he approved. Instead, she was met with a look of anger and uncertainty. A look that, strangely, scared her, She began to wonder to herself how many pills he took, how much anger he held, and how long it'd been since he slept last. House sighed.

"Alright." House answered, trying to rub away the fatigue in his face with his hands, to no avail. Nobody moved. He took notice. "Let's go. Now, now, now." He clapped his hands together as everyone took off like it was some race and House's call served as the starting shot. Taub and Foreman raced out of the office, while Thirteen sauntered over to House. House hadn't noticed she stayed, having returned his eyes to the board, searching for the same evasive, invisible answer.

"Are you gonna be okay, House?" Thirteen asked.

"Just peachy. I'm expecting my mom at noon for a cardial-pandectomy." House replied with a grin. But the more she admired his face; she just kept thinking how he couldn't pull off faking to be happy. It was strange; the smile on his face was the deadest thing. Maybe House had a point; a heart removal was the one thing emotionally that would help him.

"House." Thirteen began to speak to him, but kept her distance. "I understand the need for privacy, I respect that. What I don't understand is if you detest her so much, why are you doing your damndest to save her?" House walked from the conference room to his extended, private office. He glanced around the space and went to the window and look out below to a small, peaceful atrium. Its fountain sounds of rippling water he remembered were soothing, it'd been quite a while since he'd gone down there. He found a piece of serenity, until he realized he could see Erin sitting on a cement bench, smoking a cigarette, staring blankly at the same fountain he'd just been preoccupied with.

Erin looked a bit troubled, even as she sat calmly and brushed a strand of hair from her face; completely unaware of his gaze on her. She sat wiping her eyes in a white, cotton robe with her knees drawn to her chest like a petrified child.

"House." Thirteen called his attention back. "Who is she to you?"

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><p><strong><em>AN: Once again, I apologize for my tardiness in posting chapters. Got sick over the passed week and not much an opertunity to get on the lap top. But, please be patient. This story hasn't been abandoned._**

**_-Visions of Paradise_**


	6. An Unexpected Acquaintance

_**Chapter 6: An Unexpected Acquaintance**_

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><p>Masters hung up her Doctor's jacket and moved out all her belongings into a medium cardboard box, courtesy of a cleaning lady. She sighed, ashamed. She had intended to see this venture through to her graduation, but her plans were scrapped before her eyes. She mentally kicked herself for not listening to Foreman, Taub and Thirteen. Even subconsciously, she knew. She thought he'd respond to strength –and he did. Just not the way she envisioned. She'd gone through almost an entire box of tissues she'd swiped from an exam room, and felt so troubled, she actually vomited and was petrified with a single thought.<p>

What if House was angry enough to that he'd make good on his promise to get her barred out of every hospital unless she was a patient? She couldn't go home to her family; sure, they'd nurse her self-confidence and get her ready to face the world again, but she'd be too ashamed to crawl all the way home to admit she failed. Throughout her years of medical school, she hadn't made any particularly close friends. She took hold of her box and walked out of the locker room into the hallway, unsure of where to go. Why didn't anyone like her?

Once Masters dropped her box off into her car, she found herself walking around the maternity ward. All the joy of excited, expectant parents and families seemed normally contagious. She looked through the window to the newly delivered babies and felt a twinge of sadness. All the corruption and chaos, lies and half-truths, illnesses. She continued walking aimlessly in the walls of Princeton-Plainsboro and saw the exit to the atrium where expectant mothers and family members went to relax until the baby arrived if they were too anxious. The atrium was a small, man-made paradise that mixed concrete and nature. Trees and benches and white noise fountains, all meant to promote peace and tranquility. She sat on a concrete bench facing the fountain, under a wisteria tree and eyed the fountain facing her. It was a stone carving of a young maiden holding a vase that spouted fresh water. She sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes with a new tissue.

"What are you crying for?" The girl sitting across from her, on the opposite side of the fountain stood up and came closer, ditching her cigarette butt on the ground.

Masters sobbed once more and sized up the girl. She was pretty and had a kind face and though she wasn't glamorous, Masters knew with her porcelain skin and soulful eyes, she must've turned a few heads in her life. Masters also noticed an IV pole beside her that's fluid was dripping slowly into a line that seemed to disappear up the sleeve of her white robe. Her long, champagne blonde danced in the wind about her face from a strong gust of wind as she sat beside her and wrapped her robe closer around herself. Masters' prayer to have someone to talk to, it appeared, had been answered.

"I just got fired by my boss." She sniffed and wiped an involuntary tear away.

"I'm sorry to hear that." The girl answered sympathetically. "But in all fairness, it was just a job. I mean, look around." The woman gestured with one hand around them. "You could just as easily be in this place." Masters sniveled and rubbed her nose with the back of her arm. She looked down feeling ashamed.

"But if I could've held on just a little longer…" Masters began to present an argument for her side and couldn't even think of how to finish that sentence. She tried to shake away the thought to keep from crying about it some more.

"Okay. Let's try looking at this from another view." The woman negotiated to Masters as she stretched. To Masters, she resembled an ice princess from how pale her skin was, but oddly, warmth seemed to radiate from her. She continued, "Was there anything you hated about your job?"

"Where should I start?" Masters almost instantly thought of a million reasons and sighed exasperated. The woman smiled and listened intently as she pulled another cigarette out of her robe pocket and lit it up. Masters narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the name on her hospital bracelet before she put her lighter away.

"That bad, huh?" The woman chuckled.

"Well first of all, they mock my clothes all the time. My boss and my colleagues lie to me all the time and keep me out of everything. I mean, how can I prove I can keep a secret if they won't trust me with anything?" Masters asked, fuming.

"I see what you mean." The woman nodded and took a drag on her cigarette.

Masters spoke at length about her beliefs, morals, and her constant struggle to be a good person every day. By the time she approached the topic of her work ethic, she found her anger and sadness had vanished. The woman barely spoke a word. She just leaned back and listened to Masters, completely at ease just to hear about her troubles. When Masters finally checked her watch, she was shocked. Almost an hour had gone by.

"You want my advice?" The woman offered. Masters became all ears at the prospect of this new friend's input. "For the clothes- well, there's nothing wrong to me about expressing yourself. But if you want to change, nothing a few issues of _Cosmo_ won't remedy." She issued a quick glance at Masters' ensemble and shrugged. "For your colleagues, just be honest. The biggest piece of advice I can give you though, is this: Think about how badly you want this job. Sometimes to get what you want the most, you're going to have to do what you want the least. And if you can't put your whole heart into it- be prepared to take yourself out of it, understand?" She searched Masters' face for confirmation and was rewarded with a small nod. "Life's too short to be unhappy."

A look of panic washed over the woman's face as she ditched the butt of her cigarette and she began to attempt to portray innocence. Masters searched around the atrium for anything that would make her look frightened. Finally, Masters noticed an old, black lady heading straight for her looking quite cross in hospital scrubs.

"Miss Richardson!" The nurse's shrill, stern cry echoed throughout the high building walls that surrounded the isolated sanctuary. "You're not supposed to be out of bed! The whole staff's been looking for you! How many times do I have to tell you how dangerous it is for you to be running off like that!" The nurse concluded her rant and waited infront of Masters' new acquaintance with her hands on her hips and tapping one foot. Ms. Richardson smiled innocently and held onto her IV pole with a vice.

"I'm sorry Nanny Nurse." She said. Just before her nurse could retort, Masters' looked over at her friend with sudden realization.

"Erin Richardson?" Masters asked, astonished. She earned a small smile.

"Yeah. The _secret_ patient, that's me." Erin extended her arm and shook hands with Masters.

"I'm-" Masters began her own introduction but was cut short by Erin.

"I know who you are."

"How do you know that?" Masters was really curious considering she wasn't wearing her name tag. Erin got to her feet and walked behind her nurse, with her IV pole at her side. Erin's nurse got the doors open while Masters trailed behind them both.

"Because Doctor Wilson and Doctor Cuddy showed me your picture. Actually, they showed me your photo and a bunch of others." Erin chuckled a little to herself. "Never been to a hospital where I had to be warned about the staff before/" Masters rolled her eyes and knew it was true. They reached the room quickly. Erin's nurse helped her out of her robe and chided Erin angrily as she lied down in her revealing hospital gown. Once the nurse was gone, they deemed it safe to speak again.

"So, how do you know House?" Masters inquired boldly. Erin sighed.

"If it's okay with you, I'd rather not talk about that to people I don't know. I just don't think he'd appreciate it." Erin answered honestly.

"No. Sure thing. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked." Masters apologized and looked at the floor tiles.

"You just wanted to know." Erin winced, quietly. "No harm done. " Masters bit her bottom lip and revised her tactics.

"Can I ask you something?" Masters looked hopeful that she'd answer this one.

"Sure."

"What was House like before?" Masters question had taken Erin off guard, who thought hard about its answer. She didn't have an after to compare him to, so she answered the simplest she could.

"Happy." Erin reminisced in her mind. "He was happy." Picturing a happy and content House to Masters, was like trying to remember someone she never met. It just wasn't something that occurred or that she'd seen or ever would.

"Alright. Well, I'll let you get your rest." Masters got up and started to heads towards the door when a small voice stopped her.

"You can stay." Erin answered, barely audible.

"No, no, you're here for treatment and that's wha-" Erin suddenly grabbed her stomach and curled into a ball, breathing deeply. Masters rushed back beside her, alarmed. "Erin, what's wrong?" Masters demanded an explanation. "What hurts?"

Erin had gone from feeling a small stomachache to full on stabbing. "Stomach." She winced and crossed her hands over her stomach and pushed inwards as hard as she could. She began feeling very nauseous and light-headed. She threw her body the opposite way from Masters and vomited onto the floor. Masters held Erin's shoulders back to keep her from falling off the bed. She hit the call button, quickly.

"Front desk, how may I help you?" Came the calm, monotone voice of a young man at the nurse's station.

"This is Doctor Masters." She said loudly over the retching and coughing Erin was doing in the background, but Masters still held her firmly. "I need someone to page Dr. Wilson. Patient is unable to breathe, having severe abdominal pain and," Masters watched as Erin fell back to her laying position crying and holding her stomach. Masters' eyes caught a glimpse of bright red on the side of Erin's mouth. She walked to the other side of the bed where she'd vomited just to give it a cursory glance. It looked like a crime scene. "She's vomiting blood."

"We're having Dr. Wilson paged and giving her her next course of pain medication and Zofran.

"Thank you!" Masters bellowed back to the intercom as she dashed across the room to fetch a bed pan from a nearby cabinet and handed it to her. Through red, puffy eyes Erin looked questioningly back at Masters as she gasped to catch her breath. It reminded Masters of seeing a fish out of water. "It's to throw up in." Masters answered with a smile. She padded Erin's back as she hung her head over the bed pan and threw up nothing but blood. Erin would look pitifully up at her whenever she could. Once Erin laid back down again, Masters connected her to an oxygen mask and tried to soothe her.

"Shh. It'll be okay. It's all going to pass, you'll see." Masters whispered encouragingly as Erin's cold skin clinged onto her in a desperate grasp for contact.

"House." Erin moaned the word so softly, she wasn't sure she'd actually heard it.

"He'll be here soon. Don't worry." Once Wilson arrived and took her place with another nurse, she quietly excused herself once Erin was under sedation.

Masters had every intention of going to sleep that night once she arrived back at her apartment, but the image of Erin and how alone and afraid she was stuck with her. How could such a seemingly kind person have anything to do with House? Why would she want him at such a critical hour? Surely some friends or family could be reached. Masters knew for a long time what kind of a man her boss was; he would never have a connection to her outside work.

Maybe she misunderstood when Erin said 'House'. Maybe she just wanted something from her house. Maybe she just thought of something in her house that was making her sick. Or, at the very least, maybe she knew they weren't expecting her to make it. Maybe all she wanted was to die at home.


	7. Silence Like A Cancer Grows

_**Chapter 7: Silence Like a Cancer Grows **_

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><p>"House, you haven't slept in three days. You need to go to sleep, or at least a nap." Wilson suggested after being alerted to House's sleep pattern change, or lack thereof. "You can't go on living on just Vicodin and coffee."<p>

"You're right." House answered going once more through the Physician's Desk Reference and several research article's published on '_subcutaneous panniculitis-like T-cell lymphoma. _"Maybe I should switch to morphine." He smirked.

"House, she's been here a week. She's getting worse. You can't judge what to do by glancing at new symptoms on a chart. You have to talk to her." Wilson practically ordered. House felt a chill run up his spine. He hated to have to admit it, but he knew Wilson was right. No two patients had exactly the same symptoms. He'd have to talk to her to make an interview. If he could, he'd do it by phone. Even by letter if he had that option. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of texting her. Then he realized, he may have to examine her.

House sighed and rubbed his eyes feeling everything was surreal. Well, he thought, now's a good a time as any. Perhaps the dream feeling would serve to his advantage, detached from all emotions. He resigned at last, closing the book and standing up, walking to Wilson to collect Erin's file from his hands. "I know." He got up and followed Wilson out the door, like a lost puppy.

He walked with Wilson for what seemed to be forever as they went into the elevator and landed on her floor not saying a word to each other the entire way, just giving wary glances. House had a short period where he felt that he could contemplate to himself all the emotions running around inside himself. He knew it was coming, he felt it. But no matter how necessary or dire, he couldn't seem to make himself go through with it. He felt scared when he didn't know what fear was. He felt like a kid again having to face his father with a bad report card. He kept all those ghosts away for so long and they always seemed to come back with a vengeance. As soon as one was out of the way, one more would take its place. House's cane clinked on the ground outside Erin's room.

"It'll be alright." Wilson advised. House looked back at him, as they stood outside the door.

"Yeah. But I'm not so sure I will be." House responded. Wilson stared at him with a look of surprise. Could it be House was actually showing emotion? The balloon of hope quickly deflated as House suddenly spoke again. "I may have to molest her for old time's sake." Wilson gave a stern look of disapproval and pointed to the door. House straightened up and felt the smile die on his face as he took a deep breath and turned the handle as quietly as he could.

Once inside, he felt his heart speed up and his adrenaline pumping hard. He saw her sleeping face, angelic and peaceful and admired the rest of her that he could see above the covers. He hadn't seen her in so many years, he was almost positive he was hallucinating. Now that he could stare at her freely, he noticed how much thinner she was then he remembered her being. Her skin was fair like it hadn't seen the sun in years and her arms were bruised badly from the busted veins from where some incompetent person tried to put an IV that wasn't strong enough. How pale she was, he thought as he walked slowly to the beeping machines, grasping the file tightly. He still felt resentment towards her, but for the moment, he felt like it was a lost connection. Someone who he used to feel he knew so well, but now wouldn't know if he was staring her in the face and had a name tag. He set the charts down on the end of the bed and reached his shaking hand out and light as he possibly could, traced the veins on the back of her hand. He marveled at how frail she seemed now., sadly. He traced one long vein to the tip of her finger.

_Fragile twigs trapped under ice_, he mused. He noticed her IV drip of saline to keep her hydrated. He was suddenly caught off guard when his attention got sidetracked.

"I knew you'd come." House immediately took his hand off hers, hoping like hell she didn't notice. For a brief moment, he had a sudden urge to leave the room quite abruptly.

"Yeah. I jack all the patient's morphine while they sleep and replace it with ice water. But since you're not asleep, I'll be on my way." He remarked limping to the door. Erin sat up quickly, making her head spin and her vision almost immediately blackout.

"Greg, please don't go!" She sounded desperate. He closed the door and came back to her.

"I'm not leaving." He scoffed. She grimaced in pain as she laid back against the half-reclined bed. "But if I am staying, you're going to have to scoot over because 'cause I'm not dragging the chair." She moved over as he sat down on the bed beside her, her eyes fixated on his leg and the cane he hooked on the bed rail.

"See anything you like?" House glared noticing her blatant stare.

"I didn't- I'm sorry." She apologized, sounding ashamed. "What happened to your leg?" Her voice sounded concerned, but he was bound not to fall into this trap of seeming niceness. House reached over towards her legs and casually picked up her file and opened it like a magazine, making it clear he wasn't going to answer her. He licked the pad of his thumb and forefinger before turning a page. He clicked open his pen.

"When did you notice the symptoms?" He asked nonchalantly.

"A year and a half ago." She answered flatly, having recited these responses a hundred times over. She tried to talk to him again using a new approach. "You still hate me, don't you?" House was caught off guard, but even though it was like his brain had been jolted awake, he kept his complacent look and ignored her once more.

"Age?" House asked.

"God damn it, Greg!" She yelled hoarsely. House was surprised by the use of his first name. "You know how old I am! You know everything about me! I'm 44, five-foot-six, one-hundred-and-ten pounds! I got chicken pox when I was four, tonsils removed at seven. C-section in-"

"88." House answered staring off into space. Erin's anger momentarily subsided.

"That's right." She told him. Even though he wasn't looking at her, Erin thought on some level she'd gotten through to him. House just stared like he was entranced by a long hallway that seemed to get longer the more he stared at it. Erin inched closer.

"I missed you." She whispered. House closed his eyes as the tiredness started to affect him and the memories came flooding back along with the pain they caused. "Greg, please say something to me. Don't shut down on me again." She pleaded. House scooted away, set the papers and pen down and turned to look at her.

_Those damn eyes_, he cursed silently. He'd still never saw another pair quite the same. They evoked memories of Garbo and were the color of the sky just before a storm.

"It's been so long since you looked at me, Please don't look away." Erin commanded and begged at the same time. She was visibly shaking as she sat up to look at him. She was visibly shaking as she sat up more to look at him. "Tell me what I did, Greg." Erin pleaded. "If you won't say anything else to me, just tell me that and I'll leave. I'll go and leave you alone." House sighed and looked at her hand. He didn't even realize when she grabbed his arm. But he was so tired he wouldn't notice a firecracker going off by his head.

"I can't." House said, still looking at her. She finger-combed her hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She drew her knees to her chest. She had lost his attention that way, but at least he didn't look away from her. She would try another tactic.

"Do you ever think of Emma?" She pondered out loud.

"I try not to." House replied closing his eyes.

"I have a nightmare about her all the time, you know." Erin looked at the door. "I hear her calling for me from her room, telling me she doesn't feel good and she cries and all I hear is her being scared and needing me and I can't find her anywhere. I know it's just a dream, but it still scares me to death." House thought of Emma. He envisioned a little 3 year old blonde girl in a green summer dress, her long hair usually done in a high ponytail that curled at the end naturally. Then he remembered the dress replaced by an oversized hospital gown, the little girl lying in a giant, cold hospital bed. Her small, fragile, body attached to machines, invaded by needles and tubes. House glanced back to Erin as a tear rolled down her cheek that she brushed away with her fingertips. "The only reason I believe in Heaven is for her." She looked back at House who didn't even move a muscle. He could see Emma's eyes and face, and remembered the sound of her cries as well.

"I'm sorry, Greg." She swallowed hard. "I know sometimes it has no meaning when it's too late, but I truly am." She hoped with every fiber of her being that he would understand somehow. "I couldn't help you, so I left you alone. But you were already gone." House's attention snapped to her.

"So what do you want from me?" He felt livid. "Things didn't turn out as well as I planned, but hey, Greg, I'm dying so if you forgive me, I'll die happy!" He raised his voice in the otherwise silent room. It was almost four in the morning, nothing else made a sound on the floor and there was no doubt in his mind that everyone could hear everything. "Now it's my turn." Erin looked terrified as his temper blew and he jumped to his feet gathering her file and his cane from the end of the bed, and quickly headed to the door. He walked back to her and looked her square in the eyes.

"I can't help you and I don't forgive you. Die with that on your mind." He all but spit on her as he went to the visitor's chair and reclaimed his leather jacket, before once again proceeding to the door with an angry fervor. Erin didn't shed one tear, but the little light available in the room reflected wavily in the water that had gathered on its own in her eyes, but she refused to let them go in his presence.

"I didn't want your forgiveness." She called quickly across the room. House turned on the spot.

"What did you want then?"

"I just wanted to ask you," She paused and continued feeling herself about to cry, but held off feeling that once she started she wouldn't be able to stop. "I just wanted to ask you to... try not to hate me." Erin's tears fell even though she wasn't blinking. House looked at his hand, poised on the door handle. He wished he could, he honestly did. He asked himself what he wanted more than anything at that moment to help him make his decision on what to do. Unfortunately, the only thing he could think of that he wanted more than anything was to be able to get out of that room. He exhaled and looked back at her as he turned the door handle.

"I'm really sorry, Erin. But I still do." He remarked as he walked out the door and heard soft sobs into a pillow.

Some people say it is scientifically possible to die from a broken heart. Tonight, House was going to test that theory out. He remembered now, as he was walking down the hall passed Wilson, who looked at him bewildered as he passed without a word, why it seemed so impossible talk to her. Erin had Emma's eyes.

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><p><em><strong>AN: Unfortunately, this is a rewrite I had to do, due to me replacing a chapter for mistakes and clicking the wrong one! It sucked, and I think the first one was written better, but oh well. Hopefully this is acceptable, and if not, please accept my apologies!**_


	8. Mixed Messages

_**Chapter 8: Mixed Messages**_

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><p>"So, you're telling me no one's seen him in three days?" Lisa Cuddy looked agitated across her desk as she adjusted her suit's jacket and looked at Wilson suspiciously, like a mother staring down a naughty child.<p>

"He talked to her, then insulted me, and we argued till we hit the parking garage. He just got on his bike and took off and that was the last I saw of him." Wilson held his chin in his hand on Cuddy's desk, silently contemplating all the whereabouts his friend could possibly be. He was almost about to announce that he needed the rest of the day off to search every strip club and bar in the state. He was at a loss; House didn't pick up his phone or reply to any emails. He had told Cuddy little about the patient, except for the fact that somehow she knew House. As for her sickness that seemed to steadily be declining, he divulged the basics to her, but it seemed to be a mystery to her as well. Truth was, Wilson had no idea how Erin Richardson was connected to House either. His thoughts were running rampant. Jumbled in no certain order.

Cuddy stood and walked to a small closet armoire to take a quick glance at her suit trying to appear to be as uninterested in the 'secret relationship mystery' as possible. "Well, if House remains unresponsive for more than as long as it takes me to get back from this charity luncheon, I have no choice but to fire him." Wilson dropped his mouth open to speak, but Cuddy raised her hand in a silent protest. "I can ignore his acts because he's a valuable asset to this hospital; that's the only reason he's retained for, but ignoring clinic hours, being rash to patients and staff more than usual and refusing to come in without notice? Devoting all his time to _one_ patient?" Wilson began to get suspicious of his own brunette boss. Wilson was fully aware of House and Cuddy's inter-office affair. He was told every detail one night as House drank himself to a drunken stupor. He now knew every insignificant detail; from the fact that his boss's second toe was the longest, to the trim of her bikini wax. Not that he didn't think Cuddy wasn't attractive, but he thought more of her as an overbearing mother-type. Cuddy pulled her black skirt down further and picked up a rhinestone bracelet from her desk drawer. She paid more attention to Wilson than she did the bracelets placement after she clasped it around her wrist.

"What's the deal with this girl anyway?" Cuddy asked in her best nonchalant voice. "How are they involved? Is she his sister or something?" Wilson rolled his eyes. "Old college girlfriend?"

"I think she is. All I know is that she had a daughter named Emma in 1988, but she got diagnosed with S.M.D. when she was about a year-and-a-half. Didn't make it to 4." Cuddy ran through the years to coincide with House's life with a mental time line. House began dating Stacey in 1995, then his leg injury occurred in 1999. she lost touch with him for a few years before towards the end of the eighties. She snapped back to the conversation at hand. "Other than that, all I know is at one point, Erin's 's last name actually was House." Cuddy found herself thinking more about the poor child than the mystery that was bugging her so. Here she was, judging on stories comparing herself to House's sister thinking and Worrying she was a past lover. Then to have a child taken away so brutally. It was just heartbreaking.

Skeletal Muscular Dystrophy is a mystery disease; a unique genetic corruption is inside the child's DNA due to some missing protein receptors. They begin to have trouble with coordination and have slow developmental delays similar to Aspberger's syndrome- a mild form of autism. Cuddy reflected in her mind on the disease from a medical view point. With no physical abnormalities and no difficulties it is a very difficult diagnosis and one of the hardest for any parent. Trouble moving and seeing suddenly plague the child. Then the worst, unimaginable pain the child could go through. Children just learn to speak and when they do, they can't say what hurts, or where and can't understand why it won't stop. The child dies in pain, unable to move, breathe or swallow on their own and blind. Cuddy swallowed hard.

She couldn't imagine a God doing something that cruel. Letting you have a few good years of unconditional love, teaching and watching them grow, and then nothing. Cuddy gave herself one last look over in the full length mirror on the back of the armoire's door and closed it quietly. She couldn't imagine having that happen. She imagined for a moment what it would be like if she had gotten that news at one of Rachel's checkups. She probably wouldn't be living right now if she did. The thought of a life so innocent and pure being taken in such a vicious, unimaginable way was almost too much. She wouldn't wish it on her worst enemy. Wilson stopped speaking and seemed to be aware her mind wandered from their conversation.

"Where did you go just now?" He asked looking a little concerned, like she'd just suffered an absence seizure. Cuddy felt ashamed, her back to the door she'd just closed. She stared at her shoes and crossed her arms across her chest.

"That poor woman." Cuddy replied. "I couldn't imagine going through that and still be living." The images flooded her mind again. "To have a child just die in your arms like that with no reason why."

Wilson nodded. "It's a travesty." He'd be lying if he hadn't thought about it a hundred times. Maybe being around death so much was one reason he'd yet to have any children of his own, subconsciously at least. He already has a hard enough time wondering what he'd do with himself if he was like so many of his patients. If he'd be alone and have cancer like Erin.

"Why does House hate her?" Cuddy had been trying to sidetrack herself.

"Why does House hate half the people he hates?" Wilson shrugged. "Maybe she stole his favorite toy and he never got over it." Wilson offered. Cuddy considered it.

"Well he's angry at me, too." Cuddy countered his argument.

"He doesn't hate you. He's just hurt because he has an addictive nature, and when you make an addict choose one over the other – they stick with what they know and what they can depend on." Wilson explained.

"Then why hasn't he left you, yet?" Cuddy asked as she began walking to the door and grabbing a black, Louis Vuitton bag on the way off a side table. The voice she used was dripping with unrelinquished pain, a pain she feared she'd never be able to rid herself of. Wilson, great listener that he is, picked up the sound like a tracking blood hound.

"Trust me; I wait for it every day." Wilson and Cuddy spoke only a few moments longer in regards to treatment, professionally as doctors before Wilson picked up his files as both departed the office and walked to separate ends of the hall.

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><p><em>House's sister<em>, Taub thought intrigued as he peeked his head from around the corner. He felt a little guilty for eavesdropping, but it was an almost honest mistake. He came to tell Wilson how Erin's temperature was almost down, but she still hovered around 102 degrees farenheight and to get an update on what procedures to complete an update in what procedure to complete now that he hadn't seen hide or hair of House and Wilson was the closest to an attending for her. He walked quickly to catch up to Wilson. He was mildly excited, he admitted secretly about overhearing the drama. Gossip always made him happy at the perspective of having the inside scoop that no one else knew, he mused as he approached Dr. Wilson and tapped him on the shoulder. On one hand, he's an eavesdropper who, if Wilson found out, might distrust him with anything else. Other hand, once the cat's out of the bag, Wilson may decide to open up the proverbial bag and let out whatever was inside.

"Doctor Wilson!" He greeted, closing the five foot gap between them. Wilson turned back to see him and quit walking.

"Doctor Taub," Wilson returned the greeting, waving some papers at him. "What can I do for you?"

"It's Erin Richardson. I just needed you to sign off on a sonogram and some more blood test for hepatitis and to see if liver is functioning the right way." Taub juggled internally about the gossip and decided it best to save for later.

"Actually," Wilson paused with a tired sigh. "I was just going to do my daily check-in with her, so I'll just go with you, if you don't mind." They kept walking at a casual pace.

"Not at all." Taub answered as they began making their way to the long termed patient's room. On the way, they made the usual small talk about the weather, the past football game which somehow changed into the topic of House's new disappearance. 'Where do you think he's gone to now?" Taub asked carefully trying not to tread too much into Wilson's personal life and his friendship with House. "I hate it when he goes AWOL." he joked, "Means he's going to be in an even worse mood than before he left." Wilson sighed. He truly had no thoughts to where his best friend could be and it troubled him internally, so he tried his best not to focus on it, even with Taub's brash questioning. Instead he kept his mind to weaving around the nurses and other patients walking around the hall.

"I have no idea where he could be." Wilson answered honestly as they approached the door to Erin's room. "But you know House,' He said with a fake smile. "He's always alright." He rapped on the oversized door to the room and didn't hear an answer. Taking this as thinking she was probably sleeping, he adjusted his files and was quickly followed in by Taub to find Erin walking out of the bathroom in her hospital gown, her hair cascading down around her face in blonde, wavy tendrils. She wiped her face with the towel in her hand as she made her route to the bed, dragging her IV behind her.

Wilson found himself oddly entranced by her. He admitted to himself that she was beautiful. As she turned to try to sit slowly on the bed, his eyes focused on the open part of the gown that exposed her back. He could see how much weight she had lost by being able to see her vertebra, and his mood went from aroused to ashamed as he internally chided himself for thinking about a patient like that and he just knew that Taub- who stood idly by- was probably having the same feelings.

Taub looked at her from the angles of a plastic surgeon. She was quite pretty, even though her nose was a bit wide- not like the noses he'd be asked to create some woman with the small button nose. Her cheekbones were high and very prominent. He admired the slight, sharp angle they gave her face that brought attention to her mouth. Women used to come to him begging for those cheekbones when he still worked as a cosmetic surgeon. But it was her eyes that were probably her most impressive asset. They were big and oval and were a shade of blue that he couldn't liken any color he'd seen to it. Her lids kept them partially covered, as though she were going for a Monroe look. But he knew it was probably from the narcotics. If she was House's sister, there wasn't much of a resemblance. Except for maybe the tolerance to pain medication. Wilson cleared his throat.

"Erin, how many times are you going to disregard safety precautions by not alerting your nurse when you're taking a shower?" Wilson asked as he walked over and set his files on the countertop.

"This week, or the rest of the time I'm here?" She gave a smile devious smile, but couldn't quite make up for the lack of eye contact. She looked scared of something. Wilson commenced his checkup as Doctor Taub placed a blood pressure cuff on her arm and began taking her pulse while he continued with his questions.

"How're you doing today?" She sighed and looked at the IV in her wrist. Her chest felt like an iron corset was on her and she struggled to catch her breath, feeling pain from the spot on her right arm where the needle was connected into her skin. She felt a little panicky like she couldn't breathe, but simultaneously, her brain kept sending her messages that she knew she could breathe. All she had to do now was try to relax and wait until the feeling passed.

"I'm okay just a little nauseous, and there's this pain in my arm." She gestured down to her wrist where Taub was trying to take her blood pressure. Taub held the hand pump to the cuff in one hand and listened through his stethoscope to the beating off her heart. "I think the vein might've blown." Erin added. Taub looked at the inserted tube and touched gingerly around it.

"Seems fine." Taub commented to Wilson, who stood at the counter with his files, taking notes. Taub was taking longer than usual with the cuff.

"It's alright. After a few days, it's not uncommon to start getting sore there because it's a foreign body." Wilson explained. Erin shook her head yes, but didn't answer verbally. "Is there anything else? What's your pain scale- 1 being nothing, 10 being the worst you've ever felt?"

"It's about a 7." Her breathing sped up, and she felt like she ran a marathon and couldn't keep it up anymore. Taub quickly took the cuff off and put his stethoscope in place again her chest.

"Blood pressure is 190 over 115." Taub asked as he listened closely. Erin's breathing became erratic. "Are you asthmatic?"

"No." She wheezed through clenched teeth. "Just a little out of breath." She replied. "Honestly. That's all." Erin wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and slowly brought her hand to her chest. "Really. A person has a hot shower and feels a little out of it and you treat them like they're dying." She feigned laughter and failed.

"Erin, how do you feel right now?" Wilson got up and answered Taub's motion for him to come closer. Wilson pulled a pen light from his doctor's coat pocket and shined it in both of her eyes. They remained dilated.

"I can't …. Breathe." She hoarsely whispered, before anyone knew what set anything off, she passed out cold and the monitors around her flat lined and let off alarms in the room. Wilson began to administer CPR, while Taub hit a red button on the wall. Wilson counted and pushed his fists on her diaphragm, only to have no change.

"She's having a heart attack!" Wilson announced as a the hospital P.A. system came alive with a woman's voice designating a code blue in room 304, as it seemed every nurse migrated into Erin's room. Wilson continued his CPR, hardly able to hear amongst the noise that came into the room in addition to the crying, flat line of the machines that were constantly shouting that something was wrong. Wilson stepped back as he watched the nurses gathering and the respiratory therapists insert a tube into her mouth connected to the oxygen as Taub ushered in a crash cart. He had no idea in what order things were going, but they happened extremely fast in only a matter of moments with quick medical jargon being spoken. Wilson suddenly felt useless and powerless, just as he'd felt with Amber. This was an outsider's view of a world falling apart. He walked backwards out into the hall as they exposed her chest while the defibulator charged.

He felt unnaturally terrified. He always felt a twinge of fear with every patient once they got to the edge of a stage where losing a life depended on which side the coin landed on. He just couldn't muster a plausible reason why. He tried, but nothing came. He leaned just outside the door against the wall, hearing countdowns and announcements of the word "clear" being sporadically used. And without any thought or reason why, he found himself praying.

Wilson continued to stay focused on her limp, nearly lifeless body as they waited for someone to call out any sign of improvement. None came.

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><p><strong><em>***AN- Sorry it took so long to upload. I haven't forgotten you. Now the chapters should be coming along more regularly :)_**

-_**VisionsofParadise**_


	9. Picking Up the Pieces

Chapter 9: Picking Up the Pieces

Regret, remorse, and pain cannot be experienced in sleep. So, House slept. Sedation was his new form of self-therapy. Being numb wasn't enough anymore, maybe it was never enough. But it seemed like a good short term solution ever since he left Erin's room that night. It took so many Vicodins and Ambien to get into a sleep; he constantly feared he wouldn't wake up. And yet, there were days when he welcomed the thought. Not out of self-pity and morbid thought, but sometimes he just wanted everything to stop for a while. His hours awake were spent racking through his mind and every medical journal, book, and internet article on cancer. All the mountains of knowledge written by dozens of doctors, medical professors and other scholars yielded nothing. He didn't want to risk another round of chemo.

If chemotherapy was right, it'd only buy time. If it was wrong, it would completely obliterate her immune system and she'd probably die on the spot. The only approach if it was cancer might be arsenic. _Arsenic__Trioxide_was a form of the infamous poison used in the treatment of leukemia since the 1880s. It works just as it would on a normal human body; in minute quantities given intra-veinously, it killed cancer cells. But there in was the same problem as before, if it wasn't cancer, it would kill her. Everything seemed to point out it would actually be easier if it was cancer. From the test results, some of them would be positive and some would be negative. Always a conundrum. Sometimes he thought it would be easier if he was a simple no-nothing doctor. He just couldn't deal with the people.

He awoke and gave a stretch against his headboard, admiring the litter of papers and books that surrounded his sleeping space. His laptop sat on his legs, long shut off from the lack of charging, that he pushed unceremoniously to the side. He reflected on his sleep, any he got never seemed to be peaceful. That's when he heard the sound. He was almost positive the television remained off since he arrived home. Sounds of a little girl crying plagued his mind and seemed to be reverberating from the living room. He'd always expected a mental breakdown; he'd just assumed it'd be later down the road. At least at the end, when he was getting his back washed by some person in a nursing home, spouting nonsense.

A war was forming within him. One part wanted to wait with a glass of champagne for when Erin passed; the other made him doubt everything he knew as a doctor and vengeful being and forget all the pain she'd caused him. He wanted to save her. Maybe it was his moral side gnawing at his mind; but whether she died or not, he just wanted to be able to say with a clear conscience that whichever way the scale tipped, he would be able to make the claim honestly that he did everything he could to save her. It was his job he knew, but ultimately, it was a choice. His personal decision seemed to have no bearing as he'd spent these past three days in seclusion not recuperating from emotional upset, but looking for cures and like-symptom diseases. He felt like curing cancer.

He got up with the aid of his cane and the pain in his leg, searching his apartment for crying children. It always seemed far off, though. Even as he entered the living room the crying remained with him, but never seemed like he was coming any closer to finding the source. He didn't believe his neighbor, Mrs. Selner, had any children and knew she estranged herself from her family opting not to be the loving grandmother type, but the old, bitter, widowed bitch. He called out for anyone, but no sound reciprocated his call. The television remained off, just as he thought it was. As was the stereo system, the lights, even the air-conditioner was silent for the moment. He could find nothing. He shook his head and slapped his cheek, hard. Hallucinations were always possible. With that, he made his way to the bookshelf, determined to make the crying stop by distraction. He fingered carefully through his volumes of encyclopedias and removed a copy of William Shakespeare's, _Hamlet_.

He looked at the empty space where the book was taken from and saw an envelope against the bookcase that had turned a slight yellow with time at its corners and was wrinkled from its travels. It was postmarked to House from almost eight years ago. He stared at the envelope in his hand and questioned himself seriously if he was absolutely sure he really wanted to read it. He knew the result would be like cutting open an old scar, but he kept hold of it as he put Hamlet back with the envelope in his hand. He questioned if he'd be able to deal with this on his own. He stood on his good leg's toes, and grabbed the top of the bookcase for balance. He reached his free hand and searched blindly on top of the sturdy case, until they connected with the cool leather binding of a book. He pulled it forward as much as he could with the tips of his fingers, before he cursed himself for being dense and flattened his stance. He then used his cane's handle to knock the book down onto the floor. He picked up the book, and collected his envelope off the bookshelf and made his way to his couch. Once he was seated, he smiled at the irony as his eyes skimmed over the cover of the book: _The__Bible,__King__James__' __version_.

He opened up the cover to reveal the hoax that the bible had been hollowed out and contained 2 vials, a few hypodermic needles, a pill bottle and several envelopes addressed from Erin, some remained sealed. He grabbed the pill bottle and shut the book, then stuffed it underneath the edge of the black leather couch. He laid himself down on the couch and looked at the prescription bottle in his hand, as the envelope rested on his chest. _Morphine__Sulfate-__30__mg_. He poured 3 out and slammed them into the back of his throat with his palm. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath and lifted the seal of the envelope, removed the 4 page letter and began to read.

"_April 9th, 1995_

_My darling Gregory,_

_I'd like to start this off by saying; this was by far the most difficult letter I've ever had to write. Since Emma died, I've noticed there have been some changes in you, and really, who could blame you? It just hasn't been in the same way as everyone else. When she passed, you didn't cry. I thought it was from emotional shock, or maybe it just hadn't set in yet. Then at the funeral, you weren't there. I thought you just needed some time to yourself because I knew how close you both were. I had no idea where you'd gone. When it finally hit me, I just chose to ignore it. Death does make us do strange things and each of us react differently. Mine was to look over her baby pictures and things she'd made for me. You had nothing to say about her. When someone brought her up in conversation, you shut down. When I watched movies of her or ones that were her favorite, you left. I just didn't know how to reach out to you and still after all that happened and a few weeks passed, things hadn't gone back to normal. I don't think there was one moment after that that I spoke to you and you actually spoke to me. Everything became a one word answer with you, and nothing more. It was like you had nothing to give anymore. _

_When we first met, there was such light in your eyes. I think I hated it a little bit. I was so miserable in my own life that I despised your ability to be happy. It is stupid and petty for a grown person to be jealous of something like that, but I was. You were something special. And I should've known when all of it disappeared; it meant something truly horrible had happened to you. When I looked in your eyes and it was just gone. I thought it'd come back, I waited, I hoped. I prayed. But nothing I did seemed to make any difference to you. I think secretly, you blamed me for what happened. _

_I deserve your hatred. There is nothing I can do to ever make up for all of this. It pains me to discover this now. I thought we'd have so many more years to make everything right, and we didn't. Now things have changed so much and you wouldn't come to see me, or speak to me even if I begged. While I didn't know what I did to push you away, I do know why you hate me now. Why you changed. Why you disappeared longer and longer towards the end. Why you wouldn't and won't answer me._

_Enclosed is Emma's last picture she made for you. She says it's a 'blue' daisy. I know it's not the happiest memento, but it does have bearing. She could hardly see at home and this was supposed to be your birthday present from her. I couldn't convince her otherwise because it was her favorite color…"_

House stopped reading for a moment to glance at the drawing. It looked like an impression of a flower with five petals, scribbled on the page excitedly. House ran his fingers over the crayons lines. Apparently, Erin was nice enough to let her see what she wanted- even when she practically couldn't see at all. Emma's favorite color was blue. The flower was red-orange. He wiped at his eye and kept reading.

"_I don't think I could ever convince you to forgive me, but everything was for the best. When I got called by the hospital to get told you'd been in that car accident, I almost didn't make it myself. But I did. And then they told me what your alcohol level was. I waited and it was 22 hours in ICU, then 16 hours before you woke up. And you told me you should've died. And I thought you were relieved, until I tried reassuring you and you told me you deserved to die. I think that was the moment I knew it was over._

_I know you haven't stopped drinking. I don't know if you're doing anything else, but I like to think not. I understand I'm in no position to ask favors of you. But please, don't lose that good part of you. Do not drown in pain and hate. Be a man, not a ghost. Be everything I couldn't. Just remember Emma. I'm so sorry for what happened._

_Love always and forever,_

_Erin"_

House read and re-read the letter, and committed the picture to his memory until finally, he fell asleep with the beginnings of fresh tears in his eyes. Holding the picture to his chest, like his life was attached to it. And that's exactly how Wilson found him when he entered the apartment, not even two hours later.


	10. A Case of Forgiveness

**Chapter 10: A Case of Forgiveness**

* * *

><p>Wilson entered the dark apartment angrily. His tan trench coat was drenched from the rain he had to practically wade through on the way from his car to the apartment's door was almost unimaginable. Once inside the dark apartment, he tried to dust off the rain drops from his coat, and then flipped on the light switch by the door. He was surprised by most the books on oncology littered around the floor in random places, mostly around the black leather sofa, where he noticed House's sleeping form. He approached House who seemed to be in a deep sleep, signified by the pill bottle lying on the ground beside the couch. He picked it up and read the label. No telling how many he took or find out what else he took with it. But he knew in the back of his mind the one, undeniable truth about House: He was too selfish too kill himself. He watched House a moment to monitor his breathing to see if he was okay. Then he noticed the envelope on his stomach and didn't care about the breathing anymore as it was addressed simply to "Gregory".<p>

"What? No flowers?" Came a groggy response from the seemed to be asleep House. Wilson took a step back, surprised.

"How'd you know it was me?" Wilson asked.

"I knew it was you." House paused a second to sit up, slowly, directing his attention to Wilson. "Unless, of course, you're handing keys to my apartment to other people." House groaned a little as he raked his fingers through his hair as he felt a continuous rush of euphoria from the morphine. He began rubbing his eyes as Wilson began his ceremonious, reprimanding, tirade.

"Why haven't you been answering my calls?" Wilson asked furiously as he pulled off his coat and slung it over the back of the Lazy Boy Chair.

"As you have just seen," House countered, pointing to the couch. "I was clearly sleeping." He made no attempt to hide his letter.

"For three days straight!" Wilson exclaimed. House looked at him with indifference.

"I was tired." He explained slowly. Wilson felt like he had the mother of all migraines coming on.

"You had to wake up sometime!" Wilson countered. "And you couldn't even check your messages?" House yawned.

"No, I was watching Oprah. She and Dr. Phil had a three-day special on 'Friends Who Control Your Life'." House then changed the subject. "Didn't I tell you the surprise party for me was moved to Thursday?" House looked at Wilson completely confused. "Why are you here? Bring my mother here without permission and find out she's dying before me too?" Wilson looked annoyed and sat down beside House.

"I'm not apologizing a million and one times!" Wilson groaned and rubbed his forehead. "I just came here to tell you that Cuddy is furious about you just taking off."

"Awe, what's Mother Goose quacking off about now?"

"She's pissed, House. She wants you off this case and frankly, so do I." House looked dangerously at Wilson. Wilson shuddered a little bit from the cold shirt he wore that the rain had soaked through; but his courage waivered inside. "You can't even talk to the patient without making her cry." House felt as though he had been hit in the head with a two-by-four. "She had a heart attack today, House." Wilson looked at him, not feeling as angered but watched for a reaction. House still seemed indifferent on the outside, but anger simmered below the surface.

"What are you trying to say, Jimmy?" House asked in a low growl.

"Well, as you know, stress can lead to heart attacks. But we looked for any clogged arteries endoscopically. Nothing."

"So are you trying to tell me a little crying almost sent her into cardiac arrest?" House asked coldly. Without warning, he stood up towering over Wilson on his good leg, practically screaming. "You have no idea what I've been through! She ripped my heart out and lit it on fire in front of me!" House limped away, angrily, led by his cane. Wilson jumped to his feet.

"You selfish, inconsiderate, heartless, bastard!" Wilson announced walking quickly around the coffee table. House turned back to him for a moment.

"You have no idea what she's like!"

"Are you still trying to play God? This isn't a revenge business!" Wilson sighed and wiped a hand over his face. He was running out of things to say, and getting closer to what he really wanted to say. He didn't want to, but if he couldn't change House's mind, he'd have no choice. He asked calmly. "Just how much do you hate this woman?"

"Let's just say, I wouldn't spit in her mouth if her insides were on fire." House was feeling livid, and he had someone to take it out on. He was on the verge of seeing completely red. "Look at you. You try to save everyone and try to change others, but you can't. You play God in your own way, too, but you're too saint-like to see it. Trying to make sure your own reserved seating is in Heaven. But no, you can't just be happy with that, you want a spot in the V.I.P. section." House couldn't believe the venomous things coming out of his mouth, but he couldn't stop himself. "There are just some things in life you can't control and you need to learn to accept that, or you're as dead as she is."

Wilson felt his heartstrings being pulled in the wrong way. It hurt. He had heard everything House said, and he didn't want to. He couldn't block it out no matter how hard he had tried. It wasn't enough. It was too late. He didn't want to show it, but his feelings _were_ hurt. And he _had_ heard. Every word of it. He diverted his eyes to the floor, spotting the books again. He was tired of being the one who hurt, the one left behind, the butt of the joke. At last, Wilson spoke.

"Yeah. You hate her. Why are all these oncology books on the floor? You trying to take my job?" He looked House dead in the eye; when House glanced to the book case, he knew he had him. "I think, inside, you want to save her. I also think that you put up this self-righteous crap to keep people guessing at what you're really like."

"Let me guess, now you're getting a degree in psychology as well. Is there anything you can't do?" House did his famous mock-awe expression. Wilson sighed.

"I've been what I thought was a good friend to you for so many years, despite you making a fool of me, drugging me, robbing me, and even getting my girlfriend killed." Wilson swallowed hard, and continued to speak before House could open his mouth again. "I've blinded myself to everything you do for so long, that I didn't see what you are!" He exclaimed, and threw his hands down at his sides. "Well, I do now. All the whispers from the nurses and patients of what an asshole you are, it's all true. And through all of it," He paused and motioned at himself over his heart. "I was your only friend. Not anymore. You can't change." He turned his back on House and grabbed his damp coat off the back of the chair on his way to the door. Wilson felt the cold metal under the weight of his palm as he began to turn the knob for his last exit from House's apartment. He paused and turned to look at House one last time. "I thought all this time it was because something horrible happened to you in your childhood that made you want to shut people out. Now I get it. You're just some damaged, addicted, _bitter_ person that will only get his friends in the form of prescriptions." Wilson shook his head. "You're pitiful. I'm taking you off her case."

"On what basis?" House asked, feeling the words like thorns under his skin.

"The basis you want to kill her instead of make her better!" Wilson let go of the doorknob for a moment, and spun around in a whirl of rage and sadness.

"You son of a bitch." House hobbled a couple of steps across the floor towards Wilson. "I don't want her to die." He said somberly.

"Well the way you act, I understand why someone wanted to ruin your life." Wilson muttered under his breath. House was able to pick up the comment through the silent apartment. And something inside House snapped. He made his way towards Wilson calmly and with all the force he could muster, punched Wilson in the face. Wilson automatically dropped the coat from his hand at the precise moment House's fist made contact with his eye and reached up, grabbing House by the shoulders and pulled House to the ground. Wilson's peaceful demeanor was shattered. Fists were being thrown left and right. Knees were being jabbed as hard as they could into the other man's lower region; and grunts of pain and curse words were being flung at each other in the air. Both men battled to get on top of the other to have the best vantage point to harm the other. They rolled across the wooden floor of the living room. Every time one man would try to stand to escape, the other would pull him back down and the fight would recommence.

"I hate you!" Wilson cried out as a knee met with his stomach.

"I fucking hate you, too!" House grunted as he caught Wilson's fists and was trying to get Wilson's weight off of him. Finally, Wilson let House think he was winning for a moment before he reared back his fist and landed a punch right on the bridge of House's nose. House groaned in pain and let go of Wilson, to grab his own face. Wilson took House's moment of weakness as an opportunity. He jumped to his feet, feeling the beginning of bruises at various points on his body forming and blood was dripping from a scathing wound on his cheek where, no doubt, the skin was either broken or scratched badly. He ran to the door, and quickly grabbed his jacket off the floor and ran to the door rubbing the blood onto his shirt sleeve and resumed his place by the door. Momentarily he stood watching House, and assessed his own injuries. He felt a throbbing pain in the back of his head as though at some point, House had grabbed his head and hit it repeatedly against the floor. But he kept his hand on the door handle incase he needed to make a quick exit. Wilson caught his breath and silently willed his adrenaline flow to stop. House lay on the floor in the apartment, writhing in pain, both hands over his face. Suddenly, he moved them away from his face to his sides and laid his legs straight on the ground.

Wilson watched longer as House moved his hands away and then stopped moved at all. Blood was pouring from his nose and mouth and he could see his face starting to swell already. He wondered silently if he was in as bad a shape. And then he saw it. Tears were forming in House's eyes as he stared straight ahead at the ceiling and fell without him blinking. Wilson swallowed, hard, knowing the things they said about each other were unforgiveable. He didn't know how House felt, but he felt like a car accident victim. His friendship with House had skidded off the road and into a trench. But he was still angry. Wilson was angry and talked softly, not wanting to repeat what had just occurred.

"All you do is exact revenge, like it's the world's fault that you're in pain. I've been trying to understand you for almost ten years. I can't help you." He sniffled, but remained composed. "I'm done." Wilson swung open the door, destined to escape the confines of the apartment hoping never to return. As he took his first step out the door, but was stopped by a small, garbled cry from House.

"Wilson."

He stopped in his step, but didn't turn to see his face.

"Remember when you picked me up a few days ago from the motel, and I asked you if you remembered how we met?" Wilson kept the door open in case he wanted to try something else, but the only thing House did, was lay there.

"Yes." Wilson replied.

"I wasn't in there randomly like I said I was…"

* * *

><p>A few moments and an explanation of delving into the history of House and Wilson's friendship, saw a broken and bruised House and Wilson sitting on the floor, side by side, against the cool leather of the sofa against their backs, sipping on a bottle of 'Gentleman's Finest Whiskey' as their bruises darkened and their blood stopped flowing from their faces.<p>

"So, after all that, that's what happened?" Wilson said skeptically. House took another shot and sighed, sadly.

"Pretty much, yeah." House responded. Wilson shook his head.

"Well, at least now I can almost understand how your disregard for human life and your conviction to save someone's life got so horribly skewed." Wilson indulged himself in a shot. The unpleasant sting of the alcohol combined with its none too wonderful flavor, somehow made his words come out easier. "It's still wrong to just let her die after all that, though. Hippocratic Oath and all. The Medical Board would have your ass." He playfully jabbed House's already aching shoulder. House considered how many years he put into his career; how many sleepless nights he spent crammed over books, studying for exams. House spoke to Wilson somberly, and for once, completely candidly.

"I don't want her to die. I don't want anyone to die. I know it might not make any sense, but, I just can't make myself stop hating her." House stated, keeping his eyes to the floor, afraid if he looked and Wilson, he'd tell him how truly off the rocker he was. Wilson's brows furrowed together as he answered him seriously.

"You're going to have to let go some time." He advised his friend.

"What if I can't?" House asked, finally looking at Wilson. "Once you stop hating someone, you mourn them. And it's more painful to mourn, and you can't ever make yourself start to hate them again." Wilson drained down one more shot and began to stand up.

"That's a chance you're going to have to take." He stood offering his hand to House, who took it gratefully, and got to his feet with his cane, groaning painfully. "While you heal her, maybe you'll find a cure for hate on the way."

"Wilson," House started pleading. "Don't tell anyone about what I told you, or I'll make you wish your father never paid your mother to conceive you." Wilson smirked at the comment.

"Says the only survivor of the Petri dish." Wilson put three fingers up. "Scout's honor." House smiled at the comeback, proud his 'little boy' was growing up.

"You're an okay friend, jimmy." House said and padded him hard on his bruised shoulder as payback for his earlier mistreatment. "But you're a bad lover. Not one anniversary gift?" He smirked at Wilson. Wilson put his trench coat and made his way slowly to the door, and then he made his way back.

"But the real reason I'm here was to tell you two things. Cuddy is gunning for you. She wants you in tonight, or you're job-hunting." House shrugged, and fell back on to the couch leaned back in his sofa, feeling excruciating pain from the fight. "And Erin's health is getting worse." House mentally prepared himself for another blow. As he listened intently to Wilson as his voice grew softer and caring and Wilson slipped into his role as the oncologist. It almost felt like Wilson was getting ready to tell him, that he was going to die. "She did have a heart attack from unknown reasons, and her pain has gotten so bad we've given her the limit we can give someone of Dilaudid round the clock, but it's not working." House shook his head in understanding.

"In your medical opinion, Doctor, how much long you think she'll be able to last?" House looked up hopefully. Wilson took a deep breath.

"She could go at anytime if we don't act with chemo or radiation. But at the rate she's going, not very long. The cancer's spread."

"Not long?"

"It's not easy to say this. She's in constant pain. We've put her in a medically induced coma. There are shadows on her M.R.I. showing…." Wilson's voice drifted off, not wanting to finish.

"Showing what?" House asked, forcefully. Wilson finished quietly.

"It's metastasized. This is it, House. We've reached the end."


	11. The Darkest Silence

**Chapter 11: The Darkest Silence**

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><p>"Negative." Thirteen sighed as she slid a slide out of its position under her microscope and replaced it with another. She and Foreman sat in the dimly lit lab department hunched over microscopes, trying to find any clue to Erin's illness reviewing multiple slides. They'd been there for nearly two hours. Foreman sat quietly and wrote down test results. So far nothing matched and anything they did find made things worse. Her white cell count was down and seemed to be decreasing. The case kept taking weird turns and loops and left the team confused. They tested for bacterial infections, most the known viruses, nothing turned up; but everything still turned positive when they tested for cancer. They barely looked at each other as they continued searching for an answer, much less uttered a word. Foreman was acutely aware of this, but couldn't find anything to say regardless. He could try the weather, or mention that he liked the barrette she used to clip her hair back this morning, but he knew then that it'd be extremely obvious that he was struggling for anything to say and he didn't want to insult her intelligence. Just then the other day popped into his mind, and he thought of the perfect thing to say.<p>

"House told you who she was, didn't he?" He said bluntly, not even bothering to look up from his papers. "I saw you two talking the other day." Thirteen pushed her microscope away from herself, turned and waited for him to return her gaze.

"You know, some would consider that spying." She stated once he looked at her.

"How can it be called spying? It's not like I heard anything. I just heard you and him talking."

Thirteen jumped in. "So you assumed he pulled me aside to confide in me? When has House _ever_ confessed to anybody?" Thirteen waited on an answer to the seemingly rhetorical question. "But no, he didn't tell me." She pulled out another slide from the small counter space and placed it under the microscope, just as Taub entered the lab area with some more samples. Thirteen assessed him as soon as he walked across the room to hand Foreman the other requested samples. He looked on edge about something. His eyes kept darting from Foreman to Thirteen.

"Well, I think it's time for a visit with the mystery patient." Thirteen announced as she pushed her chair away from her station and got to her feet. "If you'll excuse me." She said aloud as she took long strides toward the door, not waiting for a response from either of them. Once Taub came in, for some unknown reason, she felt like she couldn't leave fast enough. "Check for anomalies in the blood for lymphoblast leukemia." She called as she pushed the door open and made her hasty exit.

Taub on the other hand, seemed to be waiting for the precise moment for Thirteen to leave to dish to Foreman what he'd found. He stood next to Foreman who was leaned over his microscope. Taub just wasn't sure of his delivery; he was as excited as a seven year old. He loomed over Foreman, who was working hard at trying to analyze Erin's sample, trying to exhaust every possibility of disease. Foreman felt Taub's presence like a mosquito's prick at the back of his head.

"What do you want, Taub?" Foreman clearly annoyed asked the full-grown man that seemed to possess the secret-keeping ability of a 15 year old girl.

"It's just, well, I heard this thing that," Foreman looked up, irritated at being interrupted, and gave Taub his full attention thinking it may be the only way to get it over with so he could get back to work. "I heard something between Wilson and Cuddy." Foreman looked skeptically at his long-time friend. Taub nervously reached up and itched the back of his neck; a tick of his he was never able to rid himself of when he was unsure. Foreman began to look once more into his microscope as Taub sputtered incoherently. Taub was on the verge of exploding as Chase walked in the door, to hand off some files to Foreman.

"Patient in 305 has appendicitis, so we have to move him to the O.R. now." Chase informed Foreman as he made the exchange. "And the other file is Ms. Richardson's medical history. Cuddy asked me to bring them by."

"How soon before 305 is ready?" Foreman asked.

"We're prepping him now. Just waiting for the room to be sterilized." Chase rubbed his face. "I'm short a hand, so I was wondering if you'd assist in there." He asked, knowing already Foreman wouldn't turn him down.

"Sure. I'll be available in 5." Foreman answered as he wrote something more on his pages, then looked again at Taub. "Are you going to tell me anytime soon what you want to say to me?" chase darted his attention to Taub. It wasn't Taub's specialty to say gossip among others considering their last chat about House's 'disappearance'. Taube looked back to Foreman.

"Well, I just heard tha-" Taub couldn't even finish his sentence before Chase jumped in.

"Just stop there. Think of what you're about to say. Cause everything you say, ends up backfiring on you."

"But I heard this outside of Cuddy's office." Taub explained as he bit the skin on the edge of his fingernails.

"Man, psh. Say what you want, I ain't listening." Foreman let his blatant annoyance out in the open as he pulled the microscope closer and tried to keep himself busied by what he was looking at. Taub continued talking as Chase watched silently, his mouth agape.

"House _hates_ Erin. I mean, he really hates her. No one knows why." Taub walked around closer to Foreman, who kept his head down and seemed to be doing his best to ignore him. Chase cleared his throat.

"Look, there's no possible way she could be his daughter, we've already looked into that." Chase informed. "They don't have any similarities between them aside from their sarcastic natures. Besides, in order to have her, House would've been like, thirteen." Taub raised his eyebrows, happy that his knowledge was only known to him. Foreman didn't even look away from his scope to write something new on his paper.

"That's because she's not!" Chase furrowed his brows together and looked at Taub with confusion and interest. "She's House's sister."

Chase's mouth dropped partially open. Foreman slowly raised his head; his hand still gripping the microscope's base, and stared at Taub.

* * *

><p>Thirteen recalled her conversation with House, the day before he disappeared. As House stared out blankly to the atrium, she asked, "Who is she to you?" House's only response was a warning that she was getting too personal. She reassured him it wouldn't go any further because she knew the value of privacy. Then without warning, he took things of his desk and threw them at the wall and yelled for her to get out. He'd never lost his temper at her, despite her losing hers on him. He never retributed his anger or hurt at what she said on him. She had the tiniest waiver of hope, that if he was ever going to confide in someone, that it would've been her.<p>

"Fine," She said. "I'll go." And she got herself to the door and ran her thumb over the cold metal handle of the glass door from his office. "But if I were in your shoes, I'd want to tell somebody. And no, that's not a weak attempt to get you to share information you don't want to give up." She added as she opened the door. She could her House behind her, hissing through his teeth in pain, most certainly leaned over his desk. He sighed, exasperated.

"Do you really want to know _that_ bad?"

"I just think that if she means this much to you, and things get as bad as they can, maybe it's not such a great idea for you to be in this deep with someone on your own." Thirteen caught a moment of quiet consideration from House as she looked back to him over her shoulder. The possibility flickered for a moment across his face, but hardened to stone the second it was gone. "And even though it seems so intriguing – I don't want to know." She made her exit without another word, leaving House perplexed.

Thirteen walked into the ICU to make the annual visit to Erin to see if there were any changes; or as she thought of it, anything else to add to her steady decline. All was silent in the room as she'd learned to ignore the rhythmic beeps of machines that measured out heartbeats as she entered. She looked around in the semidarkness and saw Erin's pale form almost illuminated as the low lights were reflecting off her skin making her look ethereal, like a ghost. The curtains were drawn around the other bed in the room, she mentally noted, they'd probably filled it with another patient by now. Dr. Hadley reached into a box suspended on the wall and pulled out two latex gloves and made her way to Erin's side. This was the first time she'd actually been examining her alone, as usually she would be accompanied by Taub or Foreman, even Chase occasionally would run down and check on her. Just the sight of Erin gave her an uneasy feeling and it took a moment to identify it, as she put her file down on the bed and began to put the gloves on.

She looked and noticed each tube that was placed down her throat and through her nose. The hose that hooked up to a machine that took steady breaths for her and always reminded her of an accordion stuck under glass. The IV in her jugular, the catheter, all of it scared her to death. She felt like someone was walking over her grave, realizing just then that she may be gazing into her own future and that thought alone left her rather unsettled. They had put Erin into a medically induced coma for pain that became too severe and overwhelmed the medications. She was crying and constantly and unable to eat or breathe properly between bouts of screaming and wishing aloud for the hospital staff to kill her or allow her to go home in her unstable state of mind.

Thirteen knew this was what lay in store for her, not now, but one day- this would be her. This frail, wounded person. For a moment, she felt a bit claustrophobic as she looked at Erin's sleeping face. The respirator's tube was taped into place in her gaping mouth. Overall; Erin appeared to be peaceful, Hadley noticed as she copied down her vitals Soon, Erin would be awake again, but she wondered, what kind of a life could she lead? Her blood pressure was still on the elevated side, but that was normal for pain to cause it to rise. Once the vitals and overall appearance were marked down, she proceeded with the physical examination. She stopped and looked once more at her face as she suddenly had the thought that nobody had come to visit her or drop anything off to her.

"I wish we knew what was wrong with you." Thirteen spoke barely above a whisper and reached up to brush a strand of hair out of her face, only to notice a tear in her eye. Apparently, one didn't have to be awake to cry.

"Don't we all?" Came a deep voice from the room. Thirteen looked around panicked in the darkness of the roor back on Erin fm as she turned her back on Erin for a moment.

"Who's there?" Thirteen called out. The curtain across the room was moved back by the crook of a cane to reveal House, groaning in pain just sitting up on a bed.

"Tis the ghost of Christmas future." He remarked to her, making an obvious reference to her own thoughts a few moments ago. It was eerie sometimes how House could tap into somebody else. Thirteen looked at his face which was eerily glowing as well, as though somebody jokingly put a black light in the room. She had also noticed the extensive bruising and small cuts on his face that were in the process of scabbing.

"Why are you here?" She asked him, ignoring his contrasting attitude towards the patient which seemed to change on a minute to minute basis. She also chose to ignore the remark made to her.

"Just paying respects. Why are you here?" He answered and mirrored her own response back to her as he stood up and hobbled over to Thirteen's side and perched himself on his cane as he popped the top on his pills, and knocked a few back in his mouth as Thirteen adjusted the flow of her IV, and checked all wires connected to mostly every part of her body.

"Just doing the usual checks." Thirteen mentioned casually as she picked up Erin's legs and looked around the bottom of them for any new signs or sores. "What happened to your face?" She asked, looking a little concerned.

"I got in an epic battle with a parked car." He mocked. "Car won, incase you're wondering."

"I wasn't. I was just being polite. Is it normal for patients to cry in their sleep?" She asked casually as she put her stethoscope to Erin's chest to listen to her breathing.

"It's not unheard of. I'd say she has a lot to cry about." House answered, still perched near the end of the bed.

"House," Thirteen answered removing her stethoscope. "Everyone deserves a second chance." She continually looked at Erin's sleeping form. Unable to remove her fixation; knowing something else wasn't right, but unable to pin it.

"Don't start that." House began moving to the door. "Do you believe child-murderers and politicians deserve second chances?"

"House," Thirteen tried to grab her boss's attention.

"I'm not listening to the 'Save the Vegetables' speech anymore. So if you find something, call me." House opened the door and placed his cane down just outside as he popped another pill and prepared to make his exit, but was called back by an alarmed Thirteen.

"House!" She announced desperately. "That's what I'm trying to tell you!" House turned back to see what the problem was. Thirteen mimed for him to come back and he obeyed. Once he got back to her side, Thirteen began speaking again.

"Place your hand right here." She said showing him an area just below her ribcage on her stomach. House walked and got a glove quickly from the box mounted on the opposite wall of the room and came back in record time. House's movements to touch her, however, seemed it would've gone faster had he been sedated. He hesitated and Thirteen took note of it silently, and wisely decided to not mention it just then. Once he placed his hand on her stomach, House felt around the area, then stopped with sudden alarm. "How big do you think it is?" Thirteen questioned him.

"About the size of a softball." House grabbed Erin's file off the bed and walked away angrily, limping heavily as he left the room in some form of desperation. Thirteen didn't expect the reaction as she watched House move quickly towards the door, throwing his glove down on the ground, not even attempting to make it in the trash can. She didn't know whether to remain with the patient or try to speak to him. So she did the only thing that seemed right, she took one last concerned look at Erin before she hurried out the door after House. She couldn't believe how far he'd gotten, she thought as she had to do a mild sprint to catch up to him. She continued to follow House as he walked lividly towards the elevators like a man on a mission. She fast walked behind him silently, but was too late to board the same elevator as him. What she didn't know was House knew she was trying to follow him, so as soon as he entered, he automatically pushed the 'close doors' button at the bottom of the elevator key panel. What House didn't know was that she was the fastest track runner at her high school. She smirked when she reached the already closed doors, took her gloves off and stuffed them in her pocket and made a bolt for the stairs.

House panicked inside. He didn't know what he was feeling. It was a deep hurt, similar to a migraine he realized just as the elevator gave the sinking feeling as it began to hoist itself upwards. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his pills once more. This time, he took two. This would make 50 milligrams in less than an hour. He knew it wasn't the greatest idea in the world; it only depleted his stash. What he didn't realize was this was emotional pain. And no pill no matter how strong was even going to touch the pain he felt. It wasn't enough anymore. _Perhaps it was never enough_, he thought to himself. The ride for only five floors seemed to last an eternity to him as he gasped for air and held onto the metal bar for more balance at the back of the elevator. He let himself lean into the corner for support, feeling his knees suddenly go weak. He felt hot and felt his t-shirt's collar strangle him as he tried to pry his neck free a little more. It seemed significant somehow, that when everything was going good time just seemed to go so fast that you were lucky to catch any memories of its passing. But when you were alone or in pain, time simply stopped. A million thoughts ran through his head. He wanted to be away from this. Away from her. This elevator was his prison. This hospital was his prison.

The bell for the doors dinged and opened. He lunged himself forward, cane leading his way quickly, as though he was running for some nameless monster that would catch him at any moment. He didn't even think about where he was going; he didn't have to. He saw the door in sight that he had seemed to quest for and breathed a quick sigh of relief before he opened it, and was washed over in bright light.

Thirteen heaved herself up the last of the flight of stairs. She thought she had an idea of where he would've gone to. She pulled open the door with triumphant fervor, as soon as she finished the third flight. She ran down a long silent hallway with glass doors and great views of the hospital grounds. The only sound she could hear were the galloping of her own footsteps as she ran almost straight into the door that proclaimed in bold print, _James Wilson- Oncologist_. Without knocking she threw open the door and rushed into his office.

"House!" She announced, only to be cut short by her surroundings as she shut the door behind her. Wilson sat behind his desk pen in hand, caught off guard by her sudden intrusion. On the other hand, she was caught off guard by Wilson's appearance. He had a black eye and a couple of bruises on his face, as well as a busted lip.

"He's not here." Wilson said, perplexed by the question in the back of his head of _what's going on now_? Thirteen stood looking around as though she didn't believe Wilson, looking behind her and in front of her again as she huffed, trying to catch her breath.

"What happened to your face?" She inquired as she gasped for breath.

"I had an epic battle with a brick wall." Wilson answered. His whole body was covered in bruises, and he was willing to bet House's was too.

"Let me guess, brick wall won?" She answered the remark for him, which surprised him. "So he didn't come in here at all?" Thirteen asked, completely baffled. She wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead and continued to stand in his office, waiting for him to burst in the door. Wilson set his pen down and walked around his desk to meet her.

"Dr. Hadley," He questioned. "What happened?" Before she could give Wilson an answer, the door swung open. House stood in the doorway, looking murderous, gripping his cane in one hand and Erin's file in the other. Wilson cleared his throat.

"House," He squinted at his friend, trying to make out a clear emotion on his face underneath all the surface cuts and bruises, which looked pretty bad. "Are you alright?" House limped forward and roughly handed him the folder, and began to walk away again. Wilson looked through the file quickly, deciphering its contents but still boggled why it was returned to him if it was chosen ultimately as a diagnostics case.

"It's your new patient." House sighed in resignation. He had put up a valiant battle, but lost in the end. "Subcutaneous panniculitis-like T-cell lymphoma." Wilson had been telling him it was cancer the whole time. His team told him as well. He just didn't want to believe it. Every symptom was there. The diagnosis could no longer be questioned or waltzed around anymore. Wilson looked at House like a dog that had just been kicked. Thirteen had been standing by silently, observing the interaction, unsure of her place in the conversation.

"House, for the first time in my life, I wish I wasn't right." Wilson said. It was all he could think to say; trying but failing to coax even a smirk.

"Well, she's your problem now." House responded coldly, turning to leave.

"House." Wilson uttered automatically, prepared to give the comforting speech he'd given to so many of his patients. He had it down to a science. First he'd apologize for the disease and bad news. Then he'd offer personal condolence and reassurance that they'd do everything in their power to make them comfortable and offer to give them hospice information for those that could afford it. And lastly, he'd close with another apology and sometimes a hug. But there would be no speeches this time because House would know he was getting the same schpeel that was done to everyone else. So he just thought of the best way to handle it. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. Me, too." House replied as he turned and walked out the door, solemnly. "Wake her up, give her patient controlled pain medication. She's got a lump on her stomach, just below the diaphragm, biopsy that." He took another step and put his hand on the handle and turned it. "Start her on chemo." Then with a barely audiable click of the handle pulled behind him, he was gone. Thirteen stood like a child that had just witnessed something she shouldn't have; like she invaded their privacy.

"You can't just let him go like that." Thirteen finally broke the silence as Wilson crossed the room to prepare his 'battle plan' to treat Erin.

"Dr. Hadley," Wilson responded professionally and carefully. "You don't understand the situation and you don't understand how House works. Trust me, he's better off on his own. It's when he has people around trying to comfort him; that's what makes things so much worse." Wilson couldn't believe that finally after all these years, he was actually beginning to understand his methods. Thirteen shook her head as she saw Wilson go back to his work as though nothing had just transgressed in front of him and ran out the door herself to go find him.

Wilson looked down at the papers in the file. All the symptoms and vitals that had been charted, in the end, it really didn't matter. All they could do was cater to her last wishes, whether that was to remain at Princeton-Plainsboro or to employ hospice care and die at home. He gripped the pen angrily. He'd not seen one person come to visit her and he cursed whoever she had as shitty friends that wouldn't even take five minutes to see her. He would go to her when she woke up and give her the talk. He wasn't sure if it was out of pity or kindness, but he'd offer himself to be available to be with her when she did pass. It was a hard thing to watch, but he had no choice. He just couldn't think of someone as kind as she appeared to be, truly having nobody at her side. He could see her face in his mind, sad and scared but still smiling. That's when it hit him.

When he tried to place an emotion to House's face earlier he had found it. _"Once you mourn someone, you can't ever hate them again_." House had said. Wilson breathed a thank you. House's face showed mourning. He had gotten passed his hatred of Erin.

* * *

><p>Thirteen had looked around the hospital for 15 minutes, not finding a trace of him, but random nurses pointed to the way of the elevators. Once she had gotten in, there was a little brunette girl with a "<em>It's a boy!"<em> balloon. She didn't press any buttons, but sighed heavily and held her face in her hand.

"I like your white jacket. Are you a doctor? Are you looking for the hurt man with the cane?" The little girl whistled through her front-two missing teeth. Her green eyes seemed to glimmer with admiration at Thirteen's doctors coat.

"Actually, I am." Thirteen responded like it was a sign from God and released the bridge of her nose and leaned down to face the little girl. "Do you know where he went?"

"He took my stuffed rabbit and he pushed the one with the three on it!" The little girl exclaimed both angrily and proudly. Thirteen pressed the button for the third floor. _He must've gone back to his office, _she thought. A short ride and a lot of annoying questions later, Thirteen arrived at House's dark office to find House gathering his backpack and motorcycle helmet, with a miniature stuffed white rabbit on his desk.

"I'm thinking of taking up doing portraits. Thought I'd start working on either rabbits or nudes." House explained, throwing the rabbit in the trash bin. "Never liked rabbits anyway, so take your clothes off and reenact Titanic for me on the conference table."

"You know that rabbit was a present for that girl's little brother that was born today? Or even that she saved up twenty-two dollars to get that rabbit for him?" Thirteen informed him. House did a pitiful look.

"Well, tell her our annual telethon has been cancelled, but she can always go to the internet and look up '" House responded as he started to walk out his office door. Thirteen followed him like an angry dog and grabbed his shoulder to turn him around to look at her.

"She's dying. I get it, okay? She's dying. Whatever relationship she has to you isn't important if you aren't even going to try to help her." Thirteen looked at his weathered face; it looked hardened and tired as his five o'clock shadow was already showing. "You're condemning her to death. You know that? You swear to help the people who need help and all you do is ridicule and push everyone away so you can't ever move on from what's been done to you."

"Enough! Okay! You're breaking my heart here!" He yelled sarcastically. "Who do you think you are? You have Huntington's, that doesn't make you Mother Teresa. And are we forgetting, I haven't condemned anyone to die and stuck the needles in to do it!" The mockery of her disease didn't harm her in the slightest. It was the reference to what she did to her brother that made her snap. Thirteen reached her arm up and slapped House hard across the face with enough force to make him turn his head. _Just another bruise to add to the others_, he thought.

"How dare you. I shared that in confidence with you and you know why I did it, and what can happen and what will happen to me eventually!" Thirteen tried everything not to cry, but still her voice waivered with the hurt. "I'm going to go like that! And yes it scares me to death." She rubbed her hand across her upper lip, took a deep breath and tried again to speak.

"I'm sorry." House muttered. "Everyone seems to have a pretty clear view of what's wrong with my life, but nothing of their own. I can't save everybody!" _Did I just say that? _He questioned himself.

"How can you just not care?" Thirteen asked, with tears welling in her eyes. House looked at her somberly.

"Like this." He shifted his backpack across his shoulder and began walking away, out of his conference room and continuing to walk down the hall like a shackled prisoner about to get the chair. Thirteen walked out behind him and wiped away the tears that fell out of her eyes without her willing them to. She had stopped walking after him.

"House!" Thirteen called, House stopped in his tracks but kept his back to her. "I don't claim to know you. But I do know you're one of the best doctors there is." She had hoped flattery would work to get his confidence back and maybe spout out some new possibilities. But he had no pride left.

So House kept walking.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:: Sorry for the long absence, I hope the longer chapter makes up for it. My muse left me for a while, but now it's back. I think I'll do only a few more chapters, so bare with me please! Also, some more reviews would be nice.** :)

**-Visions of Paradise**


	12. Making Peace with Fate

**Chapter 12: Making Peace With Fate**

* * *

><p>"First thing, we'll take her down and biopsy the lump. Then all we have to do is to reduce the pentobarbital." Dr. Wilson ordered that night. He kept the entire team late to give everyone the rundown on Erin's procedures. Everyone in House's conference room was yawning or trying to rub the sleep from their faces. Wilson was the only doctor among them not wearing his white coat as he briefed them like a general. Everyone knew whenever Wilson was put in charge it was going to be something grim. None of his patients were ever destined to survive; but it made it all the more depressing that they knew her personally.<p>

Erin just had this light around her that made them as doctors feel at ease with her. She'd sit there and joke with them, give them advice on their personal issues. She made them laugh. Not just a polite chuckle; she made them really laugh. Once she made Foreman laugh so hard he cried. He chuckled still when he thought about it. She tried to help Taub with his wife and Chase with his relationship woes; Thirteen and her traded make up secrets and played trivia games of Family Guy and Beatles lyrics contests. She'd personally touched each one of them, and they'd be especially sad to see her go.

"Can we do that?" Taub inquired skeptically, writing down the orders.

"She already signed the release to me that I'm able to do whatever is deemed necessary to save her life." Wilson informed Taub, Foreman, Thirteen, and Chase who all sat around House's conference table. All of them were still able to see the symptoms on the board written in red.

"So the diagnosis was SPTCL?" Foreman asked, writing his own separate notes as Wilson nodded.

"What then?" Chase hopped into the conversation. "What about the pain level? What if it can't be controlled? We need to put her back to sleep."

"We'll need her conscious to tell us anything else." Wilson sadly disclosed. "She's not going to survive much longer. The disease is so advanced and rare to boot. I think I've come across maybe one other case of it. Once the biopsy is taken, we'll do two independent tests on it to concur with the diagnosis." Wilson looked off sadly at the chart, then further back to House's empty office. He wondered where he could be for a fraction of a second, and then turned his attention back to them.

"Any family? Friends?" Thirteen looked up from her seat at Wilson. Oddly enough, that's what made the ordeal worse. Wilson checked through her file for emergency contacts.

"No. There's one person listed as a friend, that I think is unaware of what's happening." Wilson answered, poignantly. He was running on no sleep and had been up all night doing his own research on the disease. It was extremely rare, and he was surprised to find with treatment, the average case gets only about two years, if it was caught early. It was both aggressive, terminal, and fast acting. Without treatment, a grown person will live less than half a year.

"Do you have a treatment plan?" Taub sighed, troubled with the case just as they all were. Everyone once more turned their attention to Wilson. He spoke sullenly.

"We're going to try an Anthracycline-containing chemotherapy regimen first." He responded, looking at his own papers that he'd worked on all night. "Alright. The last thing that's most important. Come get me the instant she wakes up." They all agreed and set about their business. Taub and Foreman went home and Chase and Thirteen decided to stay. Wilson went to catch some sleep in his office.

Chase and Thirteen and a team of nurses went to work on her in the OR, biopsying and removing the nodule from her stomach. Thirteen and Chase regretted having to add to her pain, but it was detrimental to her health. Once she showed signs of being okay in the recovery room, they began to gradually ease up on the Pentobarbital- the barbiturate responsible for the coma. 3 hours later, they were able to take her off the ventilator and luckily the brain activity had been saved, despite the cranial pressure. Wilson predicted the only repercussion of the surgery would be cognitive issues; but with the past couple of days, who'd want to remember them anyway? Eight hours later, in the early morning, Erin began to stir.

* * *

><p>Her head felt like it'd been split open. She felt her insides had been pulled out and stuffed back in at random. She blinked sporadically and looked at her surroundings and for a split second, didn't remember anything since she last saw Wilson and Taub in her room. She tried to think harder about where she was now, but couldn't. It was like trying to remember someone she'd never met. She tried to look around herself at all the wires connected to her and now there were even new wires that connected to her forehead. The pain felt extraordinary like someone had cracked her ribs while she slept. Did she sleep? She couldn't recall falling asleep. Her throat felt so dry, she couldn't scream to call out for help before the pain started to come back. She tried to lift herself up, only to find she couldn't without making the pain worse. She lifted her hand to press the area on her stomach where the pain felt the worse only to find it had been bandaged.<p>

Erin gritted her teeth and gripped both metal handles on either side of the bed, mentally counted to three in and hoisted herself up. Once in a sitting position she seethed through her teeth as her eyes welled up with tears. She blinked them, hard, in frustration. Once the pain felt bearable again she decided to inspect the damage. She took a deep breath, reached under the thin hospital blanket and found the hem of her patients' gown. Slowly she lifted it up, her arms feeling like they were bruised all the way up to where the connected to the rest of her. She looked at the bruises on her arms and realized they were just the same ones she'd fallen asleep with, though they were lighter than she remembered them being. She turned her attention to her stomach and saw a humungous white, rectangular bandage on her stomach to the left side.

_I go to sleep and I wake up like this? What did they do!_ She thought to herself anxiously, and then an idea popped into her head. _Oh my god, _she thought silently, _they're organ harvesters! I got to get out of here!_ She knew House hated her, but she didn't think he hated her enough to make the hospital think she was an organ donor.

Cautiously, she lowered one side of her railing and threw her legs over the side of the bed. The floor felt ridiculously cold to her as she planted her feet firmly down on the pristine white tiles and put her all her weight on her legs as she rose slowly to her feet. Immediately she felt the pain get worse as she stood there, trying not to make herself lean too much one way or the other. She gripped her stomach again with her hand and pressed down a little to try to make it stop, finding it hurt worse. She felt hard bumps patterned in a straight line underneath the thinness of the gown and the bandage, which she took to be staples. She looked around to get her bearings and find her things. Not even wanting to waste time between there and the front door and someone discovering her, she decided to grab everything in a jumble and sort it out later. Now another obstacle she'd failed to notice this whole time: Her IV. That was definitely going to get a few odd looks outside. She put her things down quickly as she decided to go ahead and rip it out. She would count again and tug hard and as fast as she possibly could. She leaned against the wall, feeling such intense pain she could barely see straight. She gritted her teeth once more.

_1…2….._

Before she could count to three, the door swung open and in popped a nurse with a clipboard and a surprised expression on her face. Erin was still leaning against the wall, staring back at the nurse who greeted her cheerfully. Erin looked perplexed like the woman had just greeted her in Mandarin.

"Ms. Richardson! What are you doing out of bed!" She chided her and began to cross the room to her. Erin took a step back, looking frightened. She coughed and felt like there was a lump in her throat she couldn't clear. Her voice came out low and raspy.

"Oh, uh, just thought I'd get a little exercise." Erin smiled innocently and tried to imagine herself someplace else as the pain wasn't quite as bad as it was, but still rated highly on her scale of one-to-kill-me. The nurse finished the distance and offered her a hand.

"Well let's get you back to bed, sweetheart." It was the nurse's turn to look confused as Erin refused to take her hand.

"Actually, I'm feeling much better." Erin replied. "Matter of fact, I'd like to leave." The nurse looked like Erin had hurt her feelings.

"After a surgery like that? I'm afraid we can't let you leave yet." The nurse shook her head gently and tried to take Erin's hand again, still steadfastly rejected. The nurse took notice this time and reached out to snatch hold of her hand anyway. She led Erin slowly back to the bed just in time as Erin's headache began to kick in. Erin sat down quickly, wanting the nurse to release her hand as soon as possible. Once the nurse had, Erin leaned as far away from the nurse as the bed would allow.

"So you admit you took something." Erin started accusing. The nurse quirked an eyebrow at her, silently questioning her. "Alright. Out with it! What was it? A kidney? Lung? Piece of liver?" Erin rambled off organs able to be donated, while the nurse calmly realized what was going on.

"It's okay. Hostility is common in folks who've been woken from comas." The nurse tried to be soothing. It just made Erin worse.

"Who's been in a coma? What the hell are you talking about?" She started looking around and tried to get to her feet again, the nurse restrained her. "What is going on! I want some answers! "

"I'm going to need you to calm down!" The nurse struggled with Erin who, though just woken from a coma, was an unexpected struggle.

"No! I'm not going to calm down! You're not taking anything else out of me!" The nurse started yelling for help, who by then was starting to lose the battle. Her screams got louder when suddenly it was announced over the P.A. system that there was a "Code White" in progress in room 305. Two more nurses had suddenly joined the fight running in from the hall, making Erin even more panicked as she kicked, flailed her arms and scratched at their faces, managing to knee one of them in the groin. As soon as they had her pinned to the bed one of them reached into their pocket and uncapped a syringe and attached it to Erin's IV line and quickly began to inject an off-yellow liquid. "No! Please!" Erin froze in an instant as she could do nothing but watch in horror as she trailed the liquid up the clear, small line of rubber hose that connected into her arm. It took less than an instant for her limbs to feel impossibly heavy as the pain began to become overwhelming in her stomach as she looked around and watched the nurses as they still held her down. One of the male nurses looked down at her torso.

"Shit! I think she's popped a stitch." He raised the bottom of gown, and when his hand came back into view, was stained with bright red blood. Erin looked directly into his face as she felt her eyelids get heavy and she began to hear things have their own echoes.

"Please." Erin pleaded; he stopped looking at her wound to look up at her face again. "Please, don't kill me just because Greg wants you to."

"Who?" He asked. Erin felt herself get more tired than she'd been in a long time.

"House." She half-whispered, half-slurred before everything went black in her eyes.

* * *

><p>When Erin woke up a second time, she began to think that everything involving the nurses and the operation and everything else was a dream. She felt the cotton mouth and looked around her room. It was semi-dark with a heavy scent of antiseptic and sterile white just as she'd remembered. She tried to move her arm to scratch an itch that had started on her forehead, only to find that she couldn't. She looked down at her arms and found the reason she couldn't move them was that she'd been secured to the bed by restraints. She noticed her legs were restrained also as she tried to wrestle them free and felt a horrible stabbing pain in her stomach.<p>

'Oh my God…" She winced. "This isn't happening." She cried to herself trying to figure out an escape route. Just as she looked at the door, it swung open. She prepared herself to see some mad surgeon or the nurse Ratchet she'd been visited by earlier that landed her in this situation as she cursed herself silently for not playing it cool and pretending she'd not noticed the surgical incision until after the nurse had left. She tried to make herself sit up to steel herself against them, but could only lay there in complete agony and helplessness. Every second lasted an eternity as she held her breath to see who was coming through the door, but when they made their appearance, she was never gladder to see anybody in her life.

"Erin, do you remember me?" Dr. Wilson asked as he walked precariously towards the bed as though she posed a danger even while she was tied down. It kind of hurt him to see her this way.

"Doctor Wilson! What is going on?" Erin asked as she pulled her arm hard, trying to break the restraint that was buckled around her wrist. "Ow! Ow, ow." Erin felt the pulling of her arms set off stabbing in her stomach. She dropped her arms and began to openly weep. Wilson rushed to her side.

"Stop! You'll just hurt yourself!" He comforted. "Don't worry. Nothing is going on." He smoothed the hair that had fallen in her face and moved it back into place. He thought of the speech he had prepared and the news he had to eventually share with her. 'Well, not what you think anyway."

She looked at him questioningly.

"What do you mean?" Erin didn't move her eyes from him. He sighed and walked across the room to get a chair that he picked up and placed next to the bed, which he seated himself and rubbed his hand over his mouth.

"Ms. Richardson," He began. Keeping it professional might keep it from affecting him, he thought. Erin looked up at him with tears in her eyes, completely scared out of her wits. She reminded him of a child. _The hell with it_, he thought again.

"Erin, I want you to listen to me very carefully." He started by looking her in the eyes as well. "You're not alone; I just want you to remember that, okay?" He looked at her and waited for her reply. She nodded her head once, but didn't say anything; she seemed to know what he was going to say. "We put you into a medicinal coma. It seemed to be the only option left to outweigh the pain you felt. We're going to give you patient-controlled medication. It's morphine that's controlled by a button that's given to you so you decide how much enough is." Erin didn't seem to care about that, so he began feeling pressed to move onto the issue at hand. "The reason we woke you up, was that we had to tell you a few things you needed to know." He paused, watching her watch him, only guessing at what she could be thinking. Her face turned sad, despite her not changing her expression as though it seemed to be radiating from within. "But," he began looking into her eyes that seemed to have him hypnotized. There seemed to be a calm understanding hidden there. "You already know what I'm going to say, don't you?" She didn't give him any answers, not so much as a nod this time.

"While you were in that coma, a lump was found on your stomach. This lump was what we refer to as a nodule; it's a cluster of cells that-"Wilson started to explain it more in depth but ultimately decided it was best to proceed without the explanation. "Anyway, once it was found, we biopsied it and removed the site and sent it to be analyzed by our lab. We got our results back a few hours ago." Wilson found his heart speeding up with the anxiety. He just wanted to truly be able to tell her she was dying and not have to be so damned scientific about it. He tried a new approach. "Subcutaneous Panniculitis-like T-Cell Lymphoma is a very, _very_ rare form of cancer. Some oncologists go their entire careers only hearing about it; I've only heard of one case my entire life. It's fatal and it's fast-acting. There are only about 79 cases in the United States." Wilson continued to try mentally to prepare what he was saying as well as trying to gauge Erin's emotions and reactions, if any. "A person, once diagnosed, can live about 3 years if they get treatment and if it's caught early." Erin swallowed hard at this news.

"And if they don't?" She almost whispered the question like she felt Death's presence in the room with them. She silently pleaded with her eyes for him to take back everything he had said to her. Wilson's heart went out to her; he wished he didn't have to tell her this next part. He took a deep breath before continuing.

"They'd have about six months." He watched her take a small, sharp breath. The news had startled her a bit. He continued, nevertheless. "Erin, the lab test was positive. I'm so sorry." Wilson knew this was usually the part where the unfortunate receiver of the bad news broke down in way form or another. Erin perplexed him. She just stared off; she didn't get angry or cry. She didn't do anything and Wilson didn't know what to make of that. He had to decide where to go on from there.

"From here there are two options: You can seek treatment and stay here during your recovery time or you can seek hospice care." Erin's eyes moved from where they were fixed, back to Wilson's face.

"Hospice care?" She repeated the words like they were another language, rolling them off her tongue like she was trying to pronounce them correctly. The round of Q&A after the speech had begun. He was simply glad to hear her talking to him again.

"Nurses that take care of you at home till you pass." Wilson wasn't too thrilled about having to explain what that was and tried to make himself feel less awkward internally by shifting in his chair. She went back to single nods.

"What would treatment be?" She took a little pause in between words.

"We'll use a form of chemotherapy and radiation to start."

"What will it do to me?"

"It will try to make the cancer die off and stop re-"

"No. I mean," Erin tried to choose her words specifically. "What will it do to me?"

"Uh, normally, it does have some side effects that are manageable with other medications." Wilson thought of them all. The crippling nausea, thinning of the mucosal membranes leading to sores in the mouth, throat, and stomach making some patients barely able to swallow and talk, diarrhea, crippling fatigue, hair loss.

"Which would you pick if you were me?"

Wilson had to ask himself a very hard question. When he considered it, if he were her, honestly, he'd reject treatment. He tried his best to put himself in her position.

If she accepted treatment, she'd already had the disease over a year- so time was against her. Any time she had left could run out and she'd waste her time feeling horrible for nothing. Another reason, was because chemo didn't work overnight. It was a repeated process. And if he were brutally honest with himself, he was more the martyr type. He'd wallow in his sorrow, write some meaningful things and go about his way. He couldn't begin to imagine going the whole road alone. Then there was the worst thought of all: Chemotherapy was a treatment sadly. It was still not a cure at the end of the day. He took one more deep breath, and his reply came out more of a sigh than the way he intended.

"I'd go ahead with the treatment." He wanted to uplift her spirits, not depress her. When a person's mind allowed them to believe they could overcome something, they usually had one upper hand against whatever they were facing. He gave her a weak, half-hearted smile. "Any chance at life is worth fighting for."

"What type of life could I lead after this?" She asked rhetorically. "I'd just be walking around with this countdown clock over my head and think of poignant things." She didn't cry, she just seemed to grow more distant. "I have enough of that in my life. Some days, I can't even make myself get out of bed. I've been put on all these antidepressants since Emma died." Erin focused on her bindings to her wrists. "And they didn't make anything better. They didn't change me at all; no happier or sadder than I was before." She drew her gaze back to Wilson.

"Well, antidepressants don't work overnight. They take time to-"

"Change the chemistry of the mind that's being imbalanced." Erin finished his thought. "I was on each one for at least two and a half months. That long enough to change the chemical problem?" Wilson was at a loss for words. Erin continued, "So I eventually figured out the problem was me. It was just the normal way I thought about things. I thought of suicide every day since she died. The only thing that made me change my mind was the thought that Heaven, Hell, all of the above, might not exist and maybe this was all just as good as it gets. And if that's the case, I want it to be over." She spoke candidly to him and he couldn't detach his attention.

"You can't just give up like that. There's a difference between making peace with your fate and wanting it. There might be hope. We may be able to hold it off and someone may come up with a cure." Wilson tried his luck grasping at any straw he could think of to try to get her to change her mind. He thought of her daughter and what House had divulged. "Listen," He begged. Her eyes met his. 'I know what you have is terrible, matter of fact, it's the worst. But this isn't the way it's supposed to be. If Emma was here now, and things hadn't gone the way they had, you'd be fighting for every second wouldn't you?" Erin was unresponsive, but he just knew she was listening and more importantly, considering. "You would, because you know that Emma wouldn't want to see you die that way. She'd want her mother to live. I can't make you do this; you have to make that decision for yourself." With that being said, he'd finished his piece. He got up solemnly and began to unbuckle her restraints. She didn't speak; she just watched with morbid fascination like she'd never seen buckles get undone before.

"You're right." She responded at last. She half-smiled. "It's ironic. Sometimes the person you'd die for…dies first." She shook her head to try to mentally erase the thought like an Etch-A-Sketch. Wilson thought back to Amber and the patients he'd had throughout the years. The longest survivor he'd met had lived for twenty years with his cancer before it finally claimed him at age 67. He didn't have as much a dedication to fighting cancer as he had back at the beginning of his career. He did the news, the apologies, the prescriptions, obituaries and the occasional funeral appearance, but it wore down everything he'd held as beliefs and somewhere he'd lost the fight. Now he just seemed to be its willing victim, recruiting others for death with a mere forewarning. He wondered when he became this way. But he found the desire to see her through to the end was the most rewarding feeling he'd had in years when it came to his job.

"I don't need an answer right away, but at least promise to think about what I've said." Wilson came to the last strap and once finished walked to the counter and came back to Erin's side holding a Styrofoam cup with ice water, which she'd accepted happily and drained within a moment of him handing it off to her. He stood over her, watching her gulp the liquid down like she'd completed a desert crossing. He thought about the friend. "Do you have anyone you'd like us to call for you?" She shook her head no.

"No." She held the cups in both hands, marveling at how odd it felt to be able to move them. "I don't want to burden anyone."

"You're dying. It's not a burden that can be handled alone." The truth of it was, Wilson didn't want her to be alone for his sake. He wanted to know she would be okay without having to need a hospital staff around. "Dying's not as easy as it looks." Erin gulped the last sip of water and handed the cup back to Wilson.

"Could I have some more, please?" She asked him with such casualness they might as well be discussing the weather and not her imminent mortality. Wilson took the cup to the sink and refilled it for her. "So that means, at the end of it, I'll be reduced to some vegetable lying in a bed in Depends unable to put two sentences together." It wasn't a question; it was just an open remark. The thought scared her, she admitted. "I don't want to die like that." Wilson walked back to her and handed her cup back to her.

"Death isn't beautiful. It's not supposed to be something we want. I'm so sorry this happened to you." Wilson told her quietly. He sounded even to himself like a priest or a father talking his daughter off a ledge. He took one last look at her, and began walking to the door. "It's alright. You did all you could. I'll take the treatment." She'd called after him. He turned back to face her and genuinely smiled.

"I'll get your pain pump set up and start proceedings for your treatment." She gripped her arms around her stomach and winced, shaking her head okay. Wilson opened the door. "By the way," Wilson turned to face her as he held his position in the open doorway.

"We weren't harvesting your organs." Erin looked up at him, trying to deep-breathe through the pain. "They do that in alleyways. Or so I hear." He turned back and stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind him. From the inside, he heard Erin chuckling heartily to herself.


	13. Healinig the Past

**Chapter 13: Healing the Past**

* * *

><p>Doctor Wilson walked somberly from Erin's room, thinking hard to himself about what move to make next after her first treatment. Time was already counting against them. There was still so much to do. He knew he'd have to go ahead and call the friend for her, that wasn't optional at this point. Maybe Erin would be relieved to have someone she knew with her. His life had been turned upside down; he was being forced to turn to using House methods: Going behind people's backs in hopes that things would work out better for them in the end and hopefully people would forgive him once it was all realized. He stopped by the floor's nurse's station. He met eyes with a young man, seated behind the desk filling out some forms.<p>

"Hey, Ryan." Wilson grabbed the young man's attention away from his papers.

"What can I do for you, Doctor Wilson?" He asked as he pushed his papers to the side. Wilson leaned onto the counter; still feeling tired and noticing Ryan couldn't stop looking at the extensive bruising done to his face.

"I need Erin Richardson's chart from 305." Wilson ordered. It took Ryan a moment to stop staring before he got onto the computer in front of him and pulled it up on the screen.

"Order changes?" Ryan questioned with his fingers poised over the keyboard like a pianist.

"Yes. I'd like to switch her pain medication from the 10 milligrams of morphine as needed to patient controlled." Ryan's fingers flew over the keys and typed as though he were a court stenographer. Ryan looked at him expectantly once his fingers had stopped moving.

"Anything else?" He asked. Wilson thought for a moment before he added quickly.

"I also removed the patient's bed restraints as she seems more lucid now." Wilson stifled a yawn as he saw Ryan's eyebrows rise in mild amusement, remembering the fight he had to put up to get her restrained in the first place.

"Doctor Wilson," Ryan leaned in closely to him and spoke in a hushed tone. "Are you sure that was a good move and she's not just playing complacent?" Wilson thought about the talk he had just given her and her reactions. Erin had already gotten diagnosed with the cancer once, so this was more of a confirmation than anything else, really. She already knew what to expect going in.

"Yeah." Wilson answered thoughtfully. "She's done. Confirmation of SPTCL was advised to the patient, who acknowledged it." Ryan shook his head in understanding. The barrage of keystrokes came to a sudden halt and he looked back to Dr. Wilson.

"Is that everything?" Ryan inquired information like he was working at McDonald's, Wilson mused sadly. Wilson couldn't even answer; he just tapped his knuckles on the counter and proceeded to turn to walk back to his office to get things rolling for Erin. When he turned, he smacked into Cuddy, who stood with her hands on her hips giving him a death glare through her thick lashes.

"House." Cuddy stated angrily. "Why isn't he here?" Wilson sighed as an answer that signified this was not going to be the easiest talk they'd had.

"He's at home." Wilson told her as plain as he could. Cuddy smiled, amused that her authority had apparently no bearing to her words.

"He's fired." She informed Wilson and began walking down the hall to get to her office, which was in the opposite direction of his. Wilson didn't want to follow her. Honestly he wanted to resign himself to a nameless cot or couch somewhere where he could get some actual sleep. Instead, he forced himself to turn and follow in hot pursuit of her footprints as her high heels clanked in rapid succession, signifying her anger each time they met the linoleum floor.

"You don't understand." Wilson explained as he followed her through the door to her office.

"No, Doctor Wilson," Cuddy began her own explanation. "You don't seem to understand. I said 'Be here or find a job someplace else'. He's not here? He doesn't work here anymore. It's that simple." She berated him verbally as she took her seat behind her desk, angrily pulling the chair closer to the desk. "He needs to know that he's not more special than anybody else in this hospital." Wilson leaned himself up against the door frame, not wanting to sit for fear he wouldn't be able to make himself get back up.

"Erin's diagnosis for SPTCL was confirmed yesterday. House was the one who made the final diagnosis." Cuddy stopped moving to look at Wilson. The hurt shone passed the bruises on his skin. Cuddy swallowed hard.

"Is he okay?" She asked. Wilson rolled his eyes.

"Do you have to ask?"

"No, I don't have to ask." Cuddy thought aloud, remembering who she was talking about. She felt sorry for House; she didn't want to be tangled in his webs constantly. Her thoughts turned to the patient. "Did you tell her?"

"Yeah, I told her."

"How'd she take it?" Cuddy was genuinely concerned. Wilson ran a hand through his hair, unsure of how to word what happened to make it not sound so bad.

"She took it actually, pretty well." Wilson half lied.

"Really?" Cuddy opened a folder from beside her desk and sorted through for about a second before she scanned over something with her eyes. "According to nurse, Sherry Simpson, Erin assaulted her and accused the hospital of trying to harvest her organs while she was in a medicinal coma. She also went through a bout of paranoia and thought we were going to kill her and that it was House's directive to kill her." Cuddy closed the file and scooted it away from herself. "It took 3 nurses to restrain her."

"Well, that was before. No one explained what was going on to her." Wilson walked forwards to Cuddy's desk as a lawyer would approach a judge's bench. "She was scared. She woke up and she had staples and stitches in her stomach. I think it'd be fairly the same reaction from anyone after being asleep for 4 days." Wilson was almost angered by everyone's jumping to conclusions and labeling her a demented psychopath. Cuddy knew it'd probably be true of her under the same circumstances.

"I guess you're right." Cuddy responded. "Did she consent to treatment?"

"Yes; she did once I went in and explained what was happening and what had to be done." Wilson looked troubled suddenly, as he recalled what she had said in confidence to him. "She doesn't want to live anymore, Cuddy. And I can very well understand why."

"You're too sympathetic." Cuddy admonished like it was a bad quality for a doctor to possess. Then she re-evaluated her words. She knew you had to be sympathetic to a patient, to get a better understanding of their needs. She swallowed hard to try to take another approach. "You can't always be that way."

"Well someone has to be, damnit." Wilson fired back angrily. "I understand you have to be impartial. But the girl has nobody. House is afraid to let himself be within 100 feet of her, and from what we've all seen, she doesn't have anybody." Saying those words always made him choked up and angry at the same time. Someone should've been there with her. No one should face these types of travesties by themselves. "She's alone." Even now, he could picture her in the hospital bed. Lying there, unaided, except for the few check-ins from nurses and staff, trying to stop her own pain naturally. Having to face the hours alone.

"I'm not saying I don't feel for her, so don't make it out like I'm some type of insensitive monster, Wilson." Cuddy could feel the frustration in his voice that was directed at her. "I'm not going to sit here and be told what I'm feeling or what I'm feeling isn't enough." Cuddy knew she was coming across as some uncaring bitch, it was her job sometimes.

"I'm sorry." Wilson scratched his chin, feeling the beginning of his five o'clock shadow. "I'm just overtired."

"You're just stressed. It happens to the best of us. Don't sweat it, I'm a big girl." Cuddy tried to comfort him. "I know, it's not easy to get emotionally involved with your patients. Especially when you already had a huge indicator she wouldn't survive in the first place. You can't help how you feel." Cuddy got to her feet and walked to Wilson to speak with him face to face. "She's your best friend's sister. It's never an easy place to be."

Wilson remembered what House had disclosed to him, and sighed, running a hand over his tired face. Cuddy didn't understand half the stress and complications that went with it. He wished he didn't feel as bad as he did, and what made the situation worse was that he knew he shouldn't feel that bad. He did this every day.

"I know." He stated, emotionless. "I've got her down for chemo and a radiation treatment to start things off with on Monday when the clinic opens." Cuddy nodded her approval.

"Sounds good." She admitted. "The hardest part of this is going to convince House he needs to be here."

_No, _Wilson thought to himself, _the hardest part is going to be seeing her die once this fails_.

"I need to get House back." Wilson yawned and turned to walk out. Cuddy reached out and grabbed hold of his forearm.

"No. You've been working for 23 hours." Cuddy began taking on her mothering job. "You need to go home and get some sleep." Wilson knew she was right, but though his eyes felt tired and heavy, he could push himself through it some more.

"I'll go home right after I-"

"James, no." Cuddy shook her head. "Proneness for accidents begins once you hit working for fifteen hours. You're on the brink of doubling that. Go home. Sleep." Cuddy released his arm as he turned to walk away nodding his head in agreement. "Maybe some rest will help you figure something out you've been missing." Cuddy offered the ray of hope, and he knew she was right. He did need to sleep. He needed to do a lot of things before the day was out. "You can't save everybody. I'll take care of House."

Wilson walked to the door and exited. He would get some things, check on Erin one more time and go home to sleep for eight or nine hours and then he'd be back. "Good luck; and right now, you'll need it if you're going to get him to come back."

* * *

><p>Cuddy looked around her desk at the small piles of files. Hospital administration never seemed to end. She thought once she'd gotten this position that the no-end hours would stop because she'd be in an office setting with financials instead of running around finding actual patients maladies. She was wrong; she sighed and held her forehead in her hand. Getting House back was going to take some work. Especially after a blow like this; she knew House was like a building himself. After something wrong happens, he'd partially collapse and have to be built back up. There were always remainders of the destruction though. A phrase that's said wrong could cause him to lose a couple of floors. She'd have to walk on eggshells around him. It seemed that was their fate that they signed on for when everyone took a job at Princeton-Plainsboro. Normal doctor rules: Serve the patients; remedy their illnesses, and a small clause in fine print right at the bottom about not upsetting House. She sighed and grabbed her white doctor's jacket of her coat rack. Once a doctor always a doctor, it was a phrase everyone knew to be true that spent all those years in medical school. She pulled her curly, black tresses out from under the collar of the jacket. There were just so many questions she had to ask. She pulled Erin's file off her desk and headed out the door.<p>

She read the file on the long walk from her office to room 305, finding about the treatments and new findings as she knocked on the door. She'd suddenly thought about the personal aspect of things. She'd never laid eyes on Erin, she wondered if there'd be any similarities in how they looked, or God forbid, acted. So far she'd only caught whispers of how everyone seemed to like her so much, so she assumed their personalities were not alike. She'd find out soon enough. She knocked on the door and was answered with a soft admittance from a girl inside. Cuddy plastered a warm smile on her face.

"Hi." Cuddy answered meekly as she walked in and closed the door behind her. "Sorry about coming in so late and disturbing you." She looked to see Erin on the bed, looking back at her expectantly with her television off. She deduced from the paper on a clip board and pen in her hand, she'd been writing something that she'd interrupted. Erin partially smiled back.

"It's alright.' Erin answered as she reached for a button on her bed connected to a small machine by her IV stand. Cuddy recognized it as the patient controlled medication that Wilson had put in for her. Cuddy motioned to it.

"How's it working out for you?" Cuddy asked, trying to make conversation.

"Well, pain medication helps, but it doesn't take it all away." Erin continued looking at her, suspiciously, then shook her head. "I'm sorry; lately when a doctor comes in here I just keep expecting bad news." She smiled a bit. "But I guess it's not like you're going to tell me I'm going to die in the next hour, so I guess you're okay." Cuddy smiled hearing her explanation.

"That's totally understandable given the circumstances. Where'd you get the bracelet?" Cuddy could understand her reasoning, but was relieved. She thought Erin was eyeing her about to unleash insults or full blown sarcasm and anger. "Oh, I'm Doctor Lisa Cuddy, I'm the hospital administrator."

"My daughter made me this. Just before she went blind; it was a real bummer too, because she just started to get creative. But having the hospital administrator slash doctor in here must mean something really bad happened for you to be here; or you're here to offer condolences as part of some 'We're Sorry You have Cancer' well-wisher team." Erin concluded, waiting for Cuddy to confirm or deny it. Cuddy just started thinking to herself how deciding to come here to talk to her was a stupid idea.

"Well, it's neither of those." Cuddy tried to think of a delicate way to put words to her thoughts and questions. She couldn't think of any, so she'd try to her best to be straight forward yet still maintain delicacy. Cuddy helped herself to a chair and sat down next to Erin's bed. Erin looked a little inconvenienced as she moved the clipboard out of view and set the pen down with it to direct her attention to Cuddy. "I'm actually here because I wanted to know." She stopped herself. She didn't know what she wanted to know exactly. Maybe she actually just wanted to talk to her. "I forgot what I wanted to know." Cuddy faked an embarrassed smile. Erin looked interested suddenly.

"No you didn't. You wanted to know about House." Erin smiled back herself. "I got warned to not speak about him by Doctor Wilson, supposedly on your behalf, and you want to break your own rule?"

"No. I don't want you to break it, that's why I'm backpedalling now." Cuddy answered candidly and couldn't think of why she was being so blatantly honest with her.

"I can appreciate that." Erin answered, still smiling to herself. "Alright. Before this gets extremely weird, what did you want to know?" Erin thought it'd be better to get it out of the way, than have to die and have this woman she'd never met before still have to wonder these things to herself day in and out and probably never have them answered. "Wait, first, how do you know Greg?" A look of uncertainty crossed Cuddy's face like she didn't know who she meant for a second. "House, I mean." Erin corrected herself. Cuddy seemed to blush a little more.

"House and I went to medical school together, and we've pretty much worked together ever since." Cuddy found herself and Erin with a warm smile plastered to their faces.

"Which means somewhere in between medical school and ever since you left out that you dated." Erin deduced the answer and Cuddy nodded her head yes. Silently she noted to herself that she drew conclusions just like her brother. She could trace outside factors to solve problems that much she could tell on her own. Erin was smart, but didn't like to show it off like her counterpart.

"I know he's your brother, but," Cuddy found it hard to put this next part delicately. "He's never said anything about you. Not once that I can remember." Erin simply continued looking at Cuddy and smiled, albeit a little more half-heartedly once Cuddy told her that.

"Well," Erin started. "My brother and I haven't always gotten along." Cuddy listened with apparent interest in her story. "I got married and had a daughter. Once my daughter died, my marriage fell apart. It wasn't the marriage falling apart, but Greg was very close to Emma. I guess he blamed me." Erin shrugged her shoulders as she explained.

"But being a doctor, he would've known that SMD isn't genetically inherited." Cuddy reassured her.

"I don't know what it was; where all the hate and resentment came from." Erin tried to stay emotionally stable and not really think about what she was saying. If she did, she knew she'd cry and wouldn't be able to stop. "When Emma died, he just changed. He got into his first car wreck and didn't make it to the funeral because he was in a coma for 2 days. When I saw him again, we got into a huge argument and that was the last time I saw or spoke to him." Erin let Cuddy process that information. "I tried to talk to him over the years, but he never answered. He was so wired into the pain meds they gave him that I couldn't get through to him. It was like it wasn't him anymore, you know?"

"Yes, I do actually." Cuddy thought of the night their relationship ended. Apparently, drugs played a long role in House's history. It was a long struggle that he'd never be able to win.

"Can I ask you something?" Erin asked. Cuddy nodded her approval. "Why do you all refer to him by his last name? I don't think I've heard anyone refer to him as Greg. I mean, what caused your relationship to end?"

"He was a great man, going into the relationship. I mean, I knew he had problems. Who doesn't?" Cuddy watched Erin grimace in pain for a moment, but found it odd she didn't touch the button for the morphine. Cuddy gave a look of concern.

"Go on." Erin motioned with her hand.

"I guess I could fix him or something. He got clean once and he called me by his side, but it didn't last. It was repeated and I saw other people before then, but it seemed in a weird way like he was actually the one guy that I knew. He was the one constant that never changed." Cuddy never spoke to anyone about these feelings; it was almost therapeutic. "So I took a chance- he was clean going into the relationship- that's what made me take the chance. He was great. Attentive, knew me better than anyone else, was great with my daughter, Rachel. It was perfect." Cuddy reminisced about how it was in the beginning and almost got whimsical. Love completely washed over her, and then she inhaled a deep breath and turned dark. "Then I got sick and he thought I was going to die. I had to have surgery and he never came to see me." She laughed harshly, almost scoffed. "I was his girlfriend and he didn't even come to see me. Then just as I was coming out of anesthesia, there he was; sitting at the foot of my bed. It was like he'd been there the whole time." Cuddy had never been this honest with anyone, not even with her mother or Wilson when they asked what had gone wrong. They knew it was going to end eventually. Nobody had any delusions about that, they just didn't know when or how bad. Cuddy was moved as she remembered how she felt then; being so angry with him for not showing, then so fond of him that he did. But that fondness quickly waned when she finished her story. "It wasn't until later when I went home; that I found out he was high when he finally got the courage to come see me. To my knowledge, I didn't think he had to be high to see someone that might be dying in a hospital room." Cuddy looked Erin in the eyes, sympathetically. "If he'd mentioned Emma at some point, I might've known it was… too much to ask of him."

Cuddy thought of the whole situation that was now in hindsight. "I think now I might be the one that over reacted."

"Emma's death hit him pretty hard." Erin advised as she rubbed a multi-color beaded bracelet around her wrist. "I think he just coped in his own way. Our parents weren't exactly the most loving you could find. What was he high on, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Vicodin." Cuddy sighed. "It's always Vicodin." She thought of all the instances he's popped one or more in front of her. Then some other instances. "Well, usually. Your brother doesn't have such an easily answered question anymore." Cuddy could see her answer upset Erin, she tried to smooth it over the best she could. "He's kicked everything else; he just keeps coming back to the damn Vicodin." Erin shook her head as though she could almost understand. "In the end, I guess he just couldn't be fixed."

"There's hope for everyone, Doctor Cuddy." Erin spoke low, trying to hold back tears from pain. "Some people change. Worst case scenario, at least you can make the claim you weren't one of the people who stood by and did nothing." Cuddy gazed with concern on Erin and heard the machines beep as her blood pressure cuff around her arm began to inflate itself to get a new reading.

"Look, Ms. Richardson, I know you're probably not a big fan of narcotics after all this history, but I'm begging you, please don't make yourself suffer for it." Cuddy pleaded with Erin. Erin closed her eyes tight as she reached over and pressed the button to the pump again. A familiar, heavy feeling began to fill her chest and the pain subsided a little bit.

"Erin, please." She asked Cuddy. "Why do you call him House?" Erin tried to change the topic as the cuff deflated and the machine signified with a high-pitched tone that her blood pressure was done. Cuddy looked up and wrote it down on her file page.

"I never really thought about it." Cuddy replied as she finished writing and shut the file again. "It sounds more professional." Cuddy pondered the question and at length, spoke again. "I guess because it's impersonal. Everyone just calls him that out of respect and it keeps them distanced."

"Even you?" Erin asked; she didn't want to get too personal when she remembered that the personal line was crossed a few moments ago. She felt almost like they were high school best friends that lost touch but were picking up right where they left off.

"Even me." Cuddy replied. She cleared her throat with a cough and continued her round of questions. "I don't know actually. It's like he's two different people." She thought about clarifying her answer. "It's like he has separate identities almost. When he's nice, he's Greg. When he isn't, his alter ego House takes over." She noticed a puzzled expression on her face; it was almost as if the entire concept boggled her to no end. So she decided it was best if she continued her explanation. "It's not that he's schizophrenic; House got him arrested countless times, House is the one that sees diseases and not patients. House is the one who makes him love Vicodin more than anything else. Greg was the one who played with my daughter, and loved me, and is the one who saves people's lives." She looked once more to Erin to see if she understood any better. The perplexed look was gone, but a harder expression had replaced it. Something she wanted to know.

"Tell me about the drugs." Erin ordered. Cuddy sighed, not being able to remember all the times and different drugs he'd prescribed himself or had others prescribe for him; all the guilt trips, stolen bottles, and all the failed attempts at trying to get him detoxed. All the times she had to held his hand made her be able to hold on to a shred of hope that he'd be able to stay clean; but the very next day, always, her hand was replaced by the pills that seemed to offer more comfort to him than any embrace she could give. It was that way as long as she could recall. She'd joke to herself that she'd rather catch him smoking marijuana than the things he's done. At long length, she began to speak again. She didn't want to remember these things but Erin would never know otherwise. She didn't want to tell her, but House never would. She decided to tell her the truth; the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

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><p>Once she left Erin's room, Cuddy realized to herself what all House's team members and Wilson was so scared of losing. Erin was a truly, nice person. She seemed to be one of the countless individuals that walked these hallways that had been diagnosed. She truly was one of the few that Cuddy considered a <em>true<em> victim of life. She told Erin _everything _about how House was now. She didn't want to lay all that information out on his sister at once, and especially under the circumstances, she'd had enough bad news for one day. But still, she'd come clean to her about everything; the arrests, the lawsuits, the pills, heroin, oxycontin, Dilaudid, Demerol, and everything that went with it. Erin didn't cry, she took it in stride as though they were solving a math equation. Then again, Cuddy didn't exactly know what reaction she had expected out of her. She handled it with complete indifference, while Cuddy spoke and ventilated her rage and even cried to her about her problems. Cuddy spoke also of her mother and sister and got advice from Erin. She wondered if Erin possessed some type of magic; she heard everyone had been spilling their guts to her and afterward, for whatever reason, they'd felt a little better. Cuddy had found this to be true. She went in and cried, and ranted to her about everything going wrong in her life. She knew it was stupid to complain about your life going off track to a cancer patient, but Erin didn't mind. She seemed happy to be there for someone else. The advice she gave wasn't God-filled, it'd been practical and useful tips. She thought for a moment about the relationship between House and Erin. They didn't look alike physically; House had these cold-ice blue eyes that made you think a heart couldn't be found anywhere inside, while Erin's were the color of the ocean, a seemingly warm and inviting place that would envelope and swallow you whole if you let it. She thought how House was a doctor of medicine and Erin was an out of work hairdresser. She felt so horrible going in, but it seemed she'd found something alike in House and Erin after all. They were both healers.

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><p><em><strong>AN: I decided some things that I think should really be the end of the show, in light of Hugh Laurie revealing the 8**__**th**__** season will be the final one, ending sometime around April. There are a lot of rumors that House will kill himself to end the show and I just feel strongly that's not how the show should end. I do believe the show should go out with a bang; however, I do not wish to see him go out that way. So, this is my interpretation, if you will, of how the show should really end. Please Read and Review! Let me know what you think. **_

_**I was a little disappointed that my last chapter only got two reviews. Reviews are motivation for me and my reason to continue to do this. So if you will, just send me a little something. Just a quick note or something, please. Thank you for continuing to read this! :)**_

_**-Visions of Paradise **_


	14. Have Mercy On the Dying

**Chapter 14: **_**Have Mercy On the Dying**_

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><p><em><strong>AN: I don't know if all of you can follow this, so I'm going to explain it here: I'm following the story for the most part. House did run the car through her living room, but House never went to prison. He just went to jail for a short while, like he would in real life. So therefore, Foreman was only in charge while she was gone; hence no Parks, or any new doctors. This is my interpretation of what should've happened. On with the story!**_

_**-Visions of Paradise**_

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><p>Doctor Cuddy wandered the hallways, unable to pinpoint exactly what she was looking for. Maybe she was just trying to post-pone the inevitable, she thought. Maybe this was all just some mental hold-off. She didn't wish to speak with House, ever since he rammed that car through her living room; things have been a little uncomfortable, to say the least. She took a medical leave for a while to calm her nerves, but there was no hope for a recovery in that area. It didn't help matters that, no matter how long it's been, it wasn't exactly the kind of incident you could forget. House just wasn't a stable person. An extremist in every sense, anything worth doing to him was certainly worth overdoing. It was that line of thinking that was the leading point of all his troubles, she knew. But he had a date with his own demons, regardless. C'est la vie.<p>

Cuddy made her way back to her office, weaving through the various doctors, nurses, patients, and the occasional EMT. She was inexplicably relieved; when she finally reached the sanctity of her office space. She relished the moment of not having to interface with anyone for a moment so she could gather her thoughts and try to think of a location for House. First things first, she'd try his cell number. She picked up her office phone and dialed his number. She heard a click, like the receiver getting picked up, so she began speaking.

"House, it's me."

"Congratulations. You've reached a number that is no longer in service. If you'd like to leave a message, you're a moron." House's answering service beeped. Cuddy took a deep breath, annoyed that she'd have to put some more effort in the search for him.

"Hey, House. It's me. I, uh, need you back at the hospital. Or just call me and tell me you're okay." Cuddy ran a hand through her hair, trying to concentrate on where he could be. She thought about calling Wilson and asking him to go over to House's place to check things out, until she remembered she sent him home to rest. She thought about sending members of his team out to find him, but they were, likewise, exhausted. She resolved, she'd have to go herself. She thought hard as she went and hung up her coat, she didn't see any other way.

She found herself taking off her shift early, and driving her car to in the direction of his apartment. She felt anxious, almost nauseous, she noticed as she was halted by a red light. She took a moment to stare at her shaking fingers, forcing her to grip the steering wheel tighter to stop the involuntary movement. She hadn't spoken to House or seen him since he ran his car into her living room. She found herself too afraid to continue seeing her new friend, because of the incident. She knew it was somehow the fact that she was moving on that struck something in him that made him act out so maliciously. The green light signaled and she drove on. He had almost killed her, her mother, her sister and the man she was putting serious interest in. She knew somehow she couldn't forgive him for that; however, she thought back to all the good times and laughs she had with him and she somehow found she almost wasn't angry. The new relationship hadn't worked out- he found it too much of a safety risk to be around because of House's antics. After that, she found it difficult to look at or talk personally to any man. Part of her wanted to confront him, the other part, cried for nothing but forgiveness.

Cuddy was a hard, imposing woman when the time required it. In private, she was a much more loving, accepting, soul. It was that quality alone that allowed her to sleep at night, no matter her troubles. In some demented way, she almost envied House. He spoke his mind to anyone; always, anything he felt, no matter how many times he got hit or slapped for it. She wished she were that brave. She turned the wheel and discovered she was already in the parking lot. She sat, paralyzed, for a moment. Prisoner to her own thoughts. She was scared. Afraid if she spoke her mind about this; what would be the consequence? House always got back at whoever caused him pain, or shunned them entirely. A few choice words and House would have his opponent in tears, questioning the true value of their lives.

_He's a sociopath_, Cuddy thought. _He gets inside and tears you apart like a virus._ House was a devil of the worst kind. They get inside, they know you, and they hurt you. And their words alone could make you fly or make fill you with doubt. It was a gift, to be sure, but in the wrong moments, he could get to your soul. You never hand the Devil the keys to your mind. She looked out the windows around her, looking at all the cars everywhere for any sign of him being home. She couldn't find his motorcycle. Anywhere, but oddly; that didn't mean he wasn't home. To her, he could've gotten it towed, so she got out and walked inside to his door. Once she arrived at her destination, she rapped on the door urgently. There was no answer.

"House!" Cuddy announced, urgently. After another moment passed with no response, she lowered her hand from the top center of the door and placed her hand on the doorknob. A wave of fear came over her. What if something horrible had happened to House? It was known that some gangs would go to people's houses and whoever was dumb enough to answer the door, met a horrible end. Or what if the whole Erin situation had been the proverbial, 'straw that broke the camel's back'. What if inside, something terrible awaited her? She remembered his attempt at self-surgery to remove some small tumors from his thigh from experimental drugs that were still in the process of being tested on rats. It was supposed to regenerate muscle tissue, and it actually worked for a while. After a few injections, he'd regained the use of his damaged leg. Cuddy remembered how he relished being able to use it again at the hospital and it seemed he was a little more content with his life. That was until she received a call in the middle of the night that disturbed her slumber. She remembered his labored breathing over the phone as he pleaded with her to come to his apartment. She dragged Rachel along with her to House's apartment, when she arrived, she couldn't believe what she saw.

House was in the bathtub, surrounded by syringes that littered the floor. That wasn't even the most shocking part to her. She saw House, white as a sheet from blood loss, looking back at her breathing so rapidly in pain, his voice quivered and he shook from cold chills. She looked at what he'd done to himself. His thigh on his bad leg, was cut open, a black lump that resembled a blood clot about the size of a quarter, laid on a medical tray next to a scalpel and more syringes. An x-ray was sitting on the edge of the tub, obviously of the area that he had sliced open. She stared more at it and noticed some parts of the scan were circled with red sharpie. _Tumors_, she deduced. She remembered the panic in his eyes. That look would stick with her forever. The feeling of hopelessness, of despair at the loss of the use of his leg for a _third_ time, and of knowing he was making a huge mistake.

Cuddy remembered what happened in the past, feeling the fear rising. Her hand shook as she tried to open the door as quietly as possible. Once it was opened, she peeked inside, listening for any sound that would betray anyone's presence. There was complete silence, the only exception being a ceiling fan in the living room. The darkness could work for her or against her; but at that point, she didn't care. Somehow, she had to make sure he was alright. She swallowed hard and finally called out.

"House?" Cuddy took a sharp breath and held it as she waited for an answer that didn't come. She walked slowly through the House, stopping to grab an empty candle stick that sat on a side table by the door. She gripped it firmly, waiting for anything to pop out of the darkness and if something did, she wasn't going down without a fight. Nothing happened, moved, or popped out at her. She walked through the hallway, checking the bathroom; she decided to flick on the lights to be able to see at least a little bit. She proceeded to House's bedroom. She prepared herself mentally to find him, possibly lying lifeless from an overdose on his bed. She turned on the lights quickly and poked her head around the corner before she entered the bedroom, holding the brass candlestick in both fists before her like a samurai sword. There was no one in the room. She breathed a sigh of relief at not finding anything. She lowered the candlestick to her side and walked quickly through the apartment and felt stupid for worrying herself like that. She put the candlestick back in its place as she exited the apartment and walked back to her car.

Juggling the keys in her hand, she found the right one and unlocked her car door. She got in quickly and sat there for a moment, pondering to herself on where in the world he could be. About five minutes later, she came up with nothing except the plan to go back to the hospital and play it by ear. As she pulled into the parking lot of the hospital, she parked in her designated place and exited the car. In a way, she was glad; she didn't have to fight off the urge to confront him. After what he did to her, he incurred her hate upon himself. She was no longer obligated to hold him together or protect his feelings anymore. It just wasn't her lot in life anymore. She began to walk away from her car, only to stare up at the foreboding building. The place reminded her of a prison at times and she felt so small and insignificant in comparison to its gargantuan size. It wasn't a skyscraper, but for all the height she saw, it very well may have been. As she stared, her eyes were suddenly drawn upwards to the rooftop where she could've swore she'd just seen something like a tiny spec walk in front of the beam of light from the setting sun. She started wondering what it could've been, when the rational part of her mind decided to kick into gear and remind her that she was under a lot of stress. The incident, the work requirements, the paranoia that someone else would try to drive another car through her repaired living room, all loomed over her constantly. All this time she'd found herself scared about what House would do, now she was afraid of what House would do to her. She proceeded to walk inside, dismissing the sighting from her mind. Just as she began to dip her head to stop staring where she'd thought she'd made a sighting of someone or something on top of the roof; she'd dismissed it as just a mere trick of lighting when suddenly, there it was again.

She proceeded walking with a renewed sense of purpose and she much rather liked the idea of finding out the answer to her own curiosity than tending to the needs of others, signing the ump-teenth form of the day and looking over budgets, or putting together money drives. She walked passed the handicapped spaces, seeing House's motorcycle. But she couldn't stop. Lisa Cuddy was a woman driven by the mysteries in life; after all, it was what made her want to be a doctor of medicine in the first place. She walked into the main lobby of the hospital and entered immediately into the elevator and hit the number for the top floor. She stood in the almost vacant elevator, back to the wall. When the bell dinged for the top floor, Cuddy walked quickly passed a bunch of office doors to one at the end of the hall that signaled 'Roof Access'. She pushed open the door and was bathed in bright, golden sunlight.

She felt the wind whipping her hair around, slapping at her face as she looked around for the source. Suddenly she called out as she walked around.

"Hello?" She practically had to yell as she couldn't hear anything but the wind. "Is anyone up here?" She called as she circled around, checking in all directions. _A lack of REM sleep can produce hallucinations_, she chided herself logically, beginning to feel stupid as she searched for a source to prove sanity to herself. As she neared the building's edge, she saw a man sitting on the edge with his back to her. Not answering her calls, almost like an apparition.

"House." She called; both relieved and scared. "What're you doing up here?" She came within 10 feet of where he sat, his cane laying at his side with his legs, dangling off the edge as though it were a mere 3 feet off the ground. Cuddy felt her fear of heights; believing no matter how far from the edge she was, some magical force would throw her over it. Then she got to thinking about House; _was he planning to jump?_

"Is that you, Cuddy?" House looked over his shoulder at last, acknowledging her. She felt at a loss, as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Yes, House; it's me." Cuddy answered, trying to sweep her hair from her face. House began to get to his feet. Cuddy's heart lurched as she saw him stagger up; fearing him going over at any second. But he stood looking at the edge. Cuddy noticed the multiple bruised and cut area on his face.

"My God," Cuddy sucked in a deep breath as she noticed. "What happened to you?"

"Lover's quarrel." House replied simply. She did the concluding on her own, after remembering quickly how bad Wilson's face was broken up as well.

"Wilson did this to you?" She took a step forward, wanting to comfort him like a hurt puppy; but the hatred for this man inside her halted her steps from coming any closer. "Then you were the one who messed Wilson up."

"About what I did to you; I'm sorry." He called back changing the subject, squinting his eyes from the bright light of the setting sun. He leaned down and grabbed his cane; turning his back to the edge. Cuddy looked around the humongous space they stood on with just the red, painted circle for care flights to land on under her feet. Cuddy couldn't believe what he was saying. She was at a loss for words, so he continued. "I know there was no excuse for that, and I'm sorry I wasn't a better person. I'm sorry I couldn't be a better person for you. But I want you to know that I tried." He licked his lips and waited for a response from her of any kind. Cuddy's eyes, usually appearing cold and indifferent, sent forth a look of concern. _He's really going to kill himself_, she thought.

"House," Cuddy began, taking a deep breath. Inside, she always knew this day would come. "Please, don't do this." Cuddy pleaded, not wanting to go any closer, trying to fight the urge to rush on him and pull him off the edge. But he could drop at any second and something told Cuddy inside, he wouldn't care if she went down with him. Regardless, she took a few steps closer to him.

"I have to." He replied. "I put you and your family at risk. I could've killed you. It was just seeing you with that man." He swallowed hard, trying to focus on her face through the light making her appear to be a silhouette. She, in turn, tried to focus in on his, the golden, almost orange, light made House appear almost angelic. He continued, "I'm not angry anymore. I'm not that jealous person." He looked wounded, practically heart-broken. Here he was for the first time with no barrier to her.

"House," Cuddy tried to be consoling, recognizing the pain and the drug-induced honesty. "How many did you take?" House looked at her, hurt, but didn't answer. She tried a new tactic, "I talked to your sister. She needs you." House appeared to be a little out of sorts. "She's going to face the end alone. We can only offer company and ways to help with the physical pain. She needs someone in her corner. Please," She begged, taking another step towards him. "I'm not angry with you anymore. Everything you just said was all I needed to hear. Don't do this." Cuddy was within five feet, extending her hand to him. House sniffled, breathing more through his mouth than anything else. Cuddy noticed his eyes were red and puffy, she thought it was a trick of lighting at first. Then it hit her like a ton of bricks: House had been crying. A few tears. Maybe he had been reflecting over what he'd done. Maybe it hit him with the news about his sister and he was just realizing that she was really going to die. She looked at the pain on his face and realized what he needed. He took a few steps from the ledge, towards her. She quickly walked over and embraced him like she'd die if she didn't.

House was shocked by the brash decision she made to hold him. "I wasn't going to kill myself, you idiot." He wrapped his arms around her as well, dropping his cane and just sobbing into her shoulder. "I'm so sorry." He said; if he wasn't near her ear, she would've missed it. He closed his eyes and let a tear fall.

"I forgive you." Cuddy whispered, still holding him like a hurt child. Suddenly, with those words, House began for the first time to openly weep into her shoulder. His legs gave way and House fell to the ground in the fetal position, crying like a baby. Cuddy huddled down and covered his crying form, embracing him. He said nothing but cried of pain. The look on his face would stay with her forever.

That's the look, when you really lose something.

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><p>Erin tore a page out of her college ruled notebook and crumpled it in a ball, angrily. She tried to write, but it seemed what she wanted to say, just wouldn't come out. The knock at the door, sounded the arrival of someone.<p>

"Come in." Erin answered, quickly dropping her pen as she waited for them to enter. The straight metal handle opened and Dr. Chase entered, holding a Styrofoam cup.

"How're we feeling?" He asked somewhat cheerfully. Bringing the cup to her side, he looked down and smiled at her. She returned the smile.

"Homesick." Erin answered. "I miss the feel of it, you know?"

"Are you kidding? I get homesick every time I walk out my door." Chase chuckled to himself. Erin remained silent, with a half-hearted smile on her face. "I'm gonna need you to drink this. It's a Gastro Intestinal cocktail. Or G.I. cocktail for short." He handed her the cup, which she examined warily, noticing its consistency. It looked and smelled like someone made a mint-smoothie. It was thick and slowly running. Chase continued, "It's not that great tasting. To be honest, it's almost like chalk. But we found from our ultrasound that you have some bleeding ulcers in your stomach. That's why you've been throwing up blood. We can do an endoscopy and cauterize them shut." He explained the procedure. "You should feel a lot less stomach pain afterwards. Until then, this coats the lining of the stomach and numbs everything. Making your pain a little easier to bear." Chase watched her carefully as she listened and eyed the cup suspiciously, before she tilted her head back and down the contents as quickly as she could. She handed the empty cup back to Chase.

"That tastes horrible! Can I have a drink of water?" Erin asked. Chase walked to the trash can and threw the cup in.

"Not for about 15 minutes, otherwise, it'll counteract and disable the cocktail." Chase advised. He took a seat in the chair opposite of her bed, set out for visitors. He became concerned as he spotted the patient control pump at her side, noticing it wasn't nearly empty as it should've been. "But tell me, honestly," Chase asked. "How's the pain?" Erin sighed.

"It's almost unbelievable. I have good moments and bad moments. When it's really bad, I just lay back and wish that I could die. But when it's okay, I think I can make it through this." Erin fought back the urge to cry. "But I'm just so angry all the time. I can't- I just can't believe this is how it's going to end for me. I'm a good person." Erin sobbed and balled her firsts around the blanket covering her lap. Chase listened intently to her, and noticed how frail she looked. Even when she was angry, she looked completely defeated. He saw her pulse rise, measured out on a computer screen as it jumped from 78 to 95. "I accept that this disease is killing me. I just wish it would go faster. What's worse than knowing your death is approaching, is having a time frame when it's going to happen." She leaned forward and tried to hide her face in her hands, embarrassed about crying in front of him. "And knowing no one will notice you're gone, doesn't help. My life is over and I've done nothing with it."

Chase saw the open back of the hospital gown she wore and noticed how much more visible her spinal cord was. Each raised bump of vertebrae could be counted. He reached out and touched her arm gingerly.

"We'll know you're gone. And we'll remember you." Chase said warmly. "You're life isn't meaningless. Because of you, people know how each moment counts. You've made a difference to the staff here. Everyone will remember your jokes, your kindness, and your laugh." Chase locked eyes with her as she uncovered her face and looked at him, sobbing softly. "I finally know what I want in life because of talking to you. You made a difference to me."

"And what do you want in life, Doctor Chase?" Erin asked quietly.

"I want a family. I want to love someone so much that I'd do anything to keep them in my life, and I want to find someone who thinks the same of me. I want kids. To do the whole school play, story reading before bedtime, and scolding for getting messy and failing grades." Chase was dead serious and answered openly. "I'm not the same person because of you." He held onto her hand. "You made me want to be better." Erin smiled, weakly as she reached over and pushed the button for more morphine to be administered in her system.

"I'm glad I could help you with that." She answered as she wiped the tears from her eyes. "Do you believe in God?"

"Actually, I do." Chase answered as she lied down on the bed, suddenly feeling very weak and tired. She yawned and covered her mouth with her free hand, but Chase continued to hold her other hand, trying to comfort her. Maybe she didn't have anyone, but he considered her a new friend. "I was a strong Catholic believer for a long time." Her eyes began to close from the fatigue that suddenly plagued her.

"Will you be with me when… it happens?" She asked, barely above a whisper in the silent room. Her television was off and she had her journal on her lap with crumpled paper balls thrown to the trash bin that she missed a few times. Chase swallowed hard.

'Yes. I'll be here." He answered back quietly. Her pulse was falling fast, he noticed.

"Will you pray for me?" She asked quietly, slurring horribly from the medication that coursed through her veins and made her limbs heavier than before.

"Of course." He replied to her as she began to breathe deeply, signifying that she was asleep. Chase stood beside her bed and tucked her in like a child. He wrote down her stats quickly onto the chart at the end of the bed and then he returned to holding her hand. Closing his eyes and bowing his head, Chase began to speak.

"_May Christ, who was crucified for your sake, free you from excruciating pain. May Christ, who died for you, free you from death that never ends. May Christ, Son of the living God, set you in the loving, ever-greenness of His paradise. And may he, the true Shepherd, recognize you as one of His own. May you see your redeemer face-to-face, and standing in His presence forever. May He see you with joyful eyes, and let the truth be revealed in all its fullness_." Chase sniffled a bit, but continued as his voice threatened to break. "_Heart of Jesus, once in agony…"_ He marveled at how peaceful she looked for a moment before he finished the prayer. "_Have mercy on the dying. Amen." _He signified the Catholic cross with his fingers across his chest, and at last to his forehead. Erin's eyes opened.

"Thank you." She said sleepily. "You know what I want out of life?" She snuggled deeper into the blanket , as she grimaced in pain from her side. Chase leaned towards her and whispered.

"What do you want out of life, Erin?" Chase inquired, thinking because of the narcotics, she probably would answer with something loopy. Instead, what she said broke his heart.

"I want to live."


	15. Of Death Warrants and Broken Nerves

_**Chapter 15: Of Death Warrants and Broken Nerves**_

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><p>Erin sat, continually trying to get her letter to meet with her satisfaction. Ultimately, she decided it wasn't what she wanted to say. She'd sigh, crumple the paper into a ball and toss it at the trash can. There was so much she wanted to say, yet she felt indecisive. She could write a letter- she could write books, she felt, but it would serve no purpose. She tried to say what she wanted, but felt everything either too harsh or not harsh enough. She still couldn't come to grips with her impending doom. She smiled weakly to herself. Everything had its own sense of finality. The last sip of water, the last time she'd pick up a pen, the last breath of fresh air. And how appropriately poignant, her last cigarette. But in the least, after all these years, she was able to see Greg again. He'd looked a little more haggard than she remembered, almost tortured. A refugee released temporarily from his demon-captors, she mused. He looked scraggly with unkempt hair and five o'clock shadow. She didn't know why she feared coming into contact with him. Then she remembered the way he yelled at her and wished death on her. She kept hoping at any moment, he'd rush through the door spouting apologies for everything he'd said. Lastly, the thought came upon her that she'd been waiting for him to take back what he said for over ten years. She wished she could just accept the fact that none were coming. She'd dreamed, sometimes, of rejecting the apologies a thousand different ways; hurting him just as much as he had done to her. It was cold to know that she'd be dead long before any would come. He'd yelled at her, just as he had then. She didn't expect to see him again. She doubted he'd even make a courteous appearance at her funeral. She was cursed with being honest with herself, and she knew it was too much to ask of him.<p>

She couldn't blame him. She had brought it on herself.

A knock sounded at the door that took her attention from her letter. She put her things aside, knowing the way things were going, she'd be dead before she could get a chance to put a coherent sentence together with all the constant interruptions. Some rest hospitals provided. Maybe she'd have a chance at survival if they'd rented her a hotel room, she thought to herself. The door's-assailant didn't wait for an answer before opening cautiously and revealed its mystery. Instead of the usual single nurse coming to check her stats, or even the single doctor coming to update her on how horrible her health is dwindling what entered instead actually surprised her. In walked doctors Taub, Foreman, and Hadley. She raised an eyebrow in surprise as they walked in muttering their greetings.

"Hey." They all seemed today

"How are you?" They came in with a barrage of questions, one seemed to flow into the next. She smiled back sadly, as if it was a rhetorical question.

"We just came to handle your orders." Taub answered her silently proposed question. She leaned back into her bed as she sat there, dumbfounded. She had almost forgotten the fact of her death, finally just seeing her surroundings as simply another room.

"_My_ orders?" She asked curiously as if trying to not mispronounce the phrase.

"What you want us to do when-" Taub started trying to explain the definition of what they were talking about, then stopped himself when he realized what he had to say to finish that sentence.

"For when it happens." Thirteen finished the sentence for him. Foreman pulled up a chair next to Erin's bed and sat down, chiming, "We're here to find out some things you want done in the event they do happen." He clarified to her. Erin moved her letter to the opposite side of where they sat so none of them could read.

"Do you have a living will?" Foreman asked her like it was an exam question, as she unclicked his pen and poised it over the paper on his clipboard. Erin chuckled a bit to herself thinking quietly.

"No." She answered, making a quick list of her financial assets. Sure, she had enough to last her for a rainy week put away, but she didn't have anyone to give it to. Her entire family was gone. "I guess I'll just give everything to charity." Erin thought out loud and brightened up a bit. "Or you guys can indulge my teenage fantasy and everyone can have a big party on me after I'm gone." She smiled to herself as she listened to them snicker.

"I think that's everyone's fantasy." Taub answered, smiling warmly at her. There was something about that smile he gave her that just made her think it was the most unnatural thing. Like it was some kind of thin=mask for the pity he felt for her. She felt she couldn't tell if they were genuinely laughing or just humoring her jokes anymore. Thirteen busied herself, not wanting to think about the death of someone she considered a new friend. She didn't want to listen to anything pertaining to death, either. So while she was physically in the room, mentally, she just chanted to herself like a mantra that she wasn't there so none of it really mattered. She had to remind herself of this place. It was a place inside her where she'd go whenever she felt helpless, or hopeless, or scared. As she got older, she found herself having to come back more and more. It was the only familiar way she had to cope with things. She preoccupied herself with focusing on cleaning up the paper balls scattered on the floor near the trash can Erin aimed them at but missed.

"I guess, just give everything to Saint Jude's Children hospital." Foreman copied her words down onto the paper. The silence of the room in between answers was almost deafening. Foreman cleared his throat, while Taub began to commence her daily check up. Thirteen joined him when she had finished cleaning up the paper.

"The next thing I'll need to know is," Foreman looked over the paper and tried to rephrase the next question, delicately. "If something, er, goes wrong, do you want to be uncoded?" Foreman waited patiently for an answer as Taub finished listening to her breathing. Erin answered his question with another question.

"Uncoded?" Today, it was as if she was dreaming and had forgotten English in her sleep.

"Yes." Foreman went on to explain. "We have an option called Do Not Resuscitate or a DNR." He leaned in closer to her and knitted his brows together to try to stay focused. Thirteen absentmindedly reached out and grabbed Erin's hand, as Taub gingerly removed the dressing from over the incision made on Erin's stomach and checked its healing progress, its staples and stitches. Whether the hand-holding was for her own benefit or Erin's, however, she couldn't say. Erin didn't seem to mind or be caught off guard by this sudden move, but Thirteen wasn't prepared for how cold Erin's hand was or how comforted as she clenched it tightly in her own. Erin and Foreman's eyes didn't leave each others face as he continued. "When the time comes, your heart will stop. When it does, you'll be a code blue and a team will come in and do everything they can to get it started again." The next words, made him swallow hard feeling the sheer gravity they held forcing them to stay down in his throat. "But if you decide to be DNR, no code will be called. We'll just-"

"Let it stop." Erin answered. Foreman thought she understood the importance of what he was telling her, as she finished his sentence for him.

"Yes." Foreman responded, not wanting to think about it, himself. He'd been in her shoes; just an inch from death. He knew what the steps were, even though his was short lived and hysterical where as hers was more slow and expected.

"We don't need an answer right now, Erin. But think of this," Taub took a deep breath and was about to give her another viewpoint, but his words were never heard by anyone. Erin cut him off, almost angrily.

"No." She announced. Looking determined and set in her way. She made her choice and tried to have some dignity in her demise. A sort of elegance in her defeat. "Let it stop." Foreman started writing, then stopped himself and looked at her questioningly.

"What?" Foreman inquired, hoping he misunderstood her.

"Just let it stop." Foreman sighed sadly, rehearing what he thought he misheard.

"Alright." He answered simply and continued writing. Thirteen and Taub stood idly by in shock at hearing her request. "Any religious preference?" He inquired.

"No." He continued asking a few more menial questions that he already secretly knew the answers to. Finally, he passed the clipboard to her.

"I need you to initial at the bottom." He instructed her. She took her pen and scrawled quickly across the bottom of the page before she handed it back quickly. She didn't want to look at the page more than she had to. She felt a cold chill travel up her spine like she had just signed off on her own death warrant. Foreman then passed the clipboard to Thirteen and Taub so they could sign off as witnesses. Thirteen, Taub, and Foreman all stayed silent. They wanted to respect her wishes but simultaneously wanted to make her change her mind, No one said anything more on the subject. Taub and Thirteen wished her well and told her they'd come back in a while to check on her, as they excused themselves from the room while Foreman stayed behind to talk more to her about her treatment options. Once the door completely closed, Taub began to speak his frustrations.

"Do you believe this?" He asked angrily as they entered the hall.

"Believe what?" Thirteen asked as they walked at each others side, even though she already knew what he was talking about.

"Just the acceptance of it. She's not even going to try to fight for her life. She's a good person." Taub replied almost livid about the casualness it was handled with. He felt a little angry at Thirteen as well, secretly, because he felt she should've been the one who was the most upset by practically being in the same metaphorical boat.

"I know she is." Thirteen answered relented. "But it's what she wants." Taub couldn't believe his ears.

"But we have a job to preserve life as much as possible. It's what we signed up for." Thirteen stopped walking, hearing Taub's argument. She knew how he felt, but still looked at him angrily.

"She's going to die. We know it and so does she. If her heart stops from all the damage done and we are able to miraculously bring her back, what about her quality of life? What would we be accomplishing?" She asked him angrily. "We'd be doing more harm than good." Taub hated to admit it, but he said it.

"You're right." He resigned himself and ran a free hand over his face as he held tightly to Erin's chart with the other. "I just feel like I'm losing control." Thirteen turned away and kept walking.

"We all do. It's something we can't help." Taub kept his pace with her, walking slowly as possible to head back to the nurse's station to return Erin's papers and pick up another file for the next patient of his shift.

"I just feel so helpless." Taub commented as he walked away from Thirteen to continue his job.

"Imagine how I feel." Thirteen muttered to herself under her breath as she watched him walk off. A thought then came to her mind, she remembered the crumpled letters she picked up in Erin's room. One of them she had pocketed discreetly. As she retrieved the crumpled sheet of notebook paper from her pocket, she briefly wondered to herself what Erin was writing that she needed to make so many failed attempts at writing. She felt like she was violating Erin's privacy, but then she acknowledged all the years spent snooping for House to get answers remedied that thought. She hoped it was something she could possibly help her with. She almost felt herself hold her breath in anticipation as she unfolded it and read the only words written in neatly, scrawled cursive letters.

_**"Dear Greg,**_

_**I'm sorry I lied."**_

* * *

><p>Cuddy guided House back into the building, giving him a few minutes to gather himself and she helped clean him up a bit. She wouldn't breathe a word to anyone about his episode, it was all she needed to know that he was sincerely sorry for once. They didn't breathe a word to each other as she escorted House to the first bathroom they passed. Even though it was a men's room, she still accompanied him inside as he hobbled to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face and looked in the mirror. His eyes were glassy and red and his nose was red to match. Add in the bruises and abrasions and he looked just like the victim of a hit and run. He certainly felt like one.<p>

"You have to talk to her, House." Cuddy advised as she leaned against the wall and crossed her arms across her chest like she was his parole officer as she watched him scrutinize himself quietly.

"I know." He replied as he reached for a paper towel and gingerly toweled the water from his face. "Doesn't change the fact that I really don't want to."

"I don't think you have a choice in the matter anymore." Cuddy answered as she stood up straight again. "She needs someone, House. She hasn't had one visitor that wasn't on the staff since she came here." She approached him and looked at him in the reflection. "God only knows what would've happened if she'd opted to go home without treatment." She wished she could read his mind as she watched him seem to stare vacantly into the mirror at himself. "If you want to prove you've changed, you can do this for your sister. You need to forgive her."

House gazed at himself. On the whole, he looked to be the same miserable bastard he'd always been. It just seemed today, someone beat him at his own game. He felt horrible and he showed it. He had to admit to himself he did want to see her, but all the things he had said to her were unforgivable. How could he fix what he spent so long trying to destroy? He couldn't even think of anything to say to Cuddy. He wanted to go home and get so high he had to cling to his couch because he was afraid he'd die. He wanted to be on the edge of comatose. He turned his back to the sink to face Cuddy. So this was his penance for treating life for so long with such hate. Such irreverence. Cuddy still looked the same after so many years; the only thing that had changed was how tired she looked. All those nights of studying and answering emergency calls and coming to his aid had taken their toll. But he supposed after all this time, she was still beautiful. He just didn't feel the same sped up heartbeat and nervousness she used to. It seemed as though all the butterflies he'd felt inside whenever she passed had finally died off. He kind of missed the feeling. It was the only reminder for the longest time that he could feel something good, naturally. But he was also glad it was gone, because just as he had lost her, he thought he'd never get over her. It looked like there might be a shred of hope still. He almost wanted to thank her. Almost.

In that moment, as he locked eyes with her, it seemed like she understood what he meant. She was still concerned about him, but that was as far as the feelings went towards him anymore. Concern about his life and the decisions and mistakes he's made that she feared he would always make. She reached out and touched his shoulder gingerly.

"Everything will be fine." Cuddy promised even though she couldn't guarantee anything. House stood for a moment, focusing as much as he possibly could on the contact. He shook his head in agreement with her. She walked towards the door and he pulled it open for her and they made their way to the elevator together.

"Please, promise me if something goes wrong, you won't take off this time." Cuddy asked suddenly. He glanced at her and thought for a moment. It might be too much to ask of him.

"What do you mean?" House asked, turning his attention back to the elevator buttons.

"If something happens, you'll find me instead of disappearing." Cuddy clarified as the doors opened and they stepped out onto the floor. He wished he had stayed on the roof. He hated the lights in the place. He looked around and saw some of the shocked expressions on the nurses faces that he was back again. Once he shot a glare in their direction, no one locked eyes with him again. House felt his breath hitch and his heart speed up. Even being in the same vicinity as her unnerved him. He scratched lightly over a scab on his face, and tried his best not to show how truly uncomfortable he was. Cuddy inched up behind him and spoke in his ear. "Go on. I'll be right here."

House as slow as humanly possible, made his way to her room. Cuddy stayed at her post beside the nurse's station.

"What's going on?" A male's voice called to Cuddy. Cuddy turned and set her eyes on Wilson, who was walking up to her completely filled with curiosity at the sight of House on this floor. Cuddy answered over her shoulder, as low as she could.

"House is going to talk to her like a normal human being." Wilson came to rest by Cuddy, watching House continue his long walk down the hall.

"I don't think he can do it." Wilson answered frankly. Cuddy looked at him again, then back at House.

"I think he will."

"It's too much, too soon." Wilson answered with concern. He then caught a scent that delighted his senses. "Are you wearing new perfume?" Cuddy was caught off guard.

"Not that it's relevant, but yes." She replied without looking at him.

"It's nice." Was his reply, though neither was really paying attention to each other as they were more focused on House completing the journey. Wilson knew it was too much and that Cuddy knew it, too. Nevertheless, he still had some tiny nagging bit of hope that House would prove him wrong. They watched with morbid fixation as House approached the door.

He swallowed hard and almost felt like he was going to pass out as he stood outside the door. He could feel the eyes fixated on him. He didn't have to be told he had garnered practically the whole floor's attention. He tried to concentrate on his breathing as he reached up a shaky hand to knock, feeling his palms sweat as he balled his free hand into a fist while his other gripped his cane so tightly, his knuckles turned white.

He moved his fist forward to knock and pulled it back slowly an inch from making contact with the door. He could hear Erin crying on the other side. Suddenly, his fear overtook any nerve he had left.

"I can't do this." He said to himself, feeling the panic rise in his throat. He retreated his hand and headed the opposite direction.

"House!" Cuddy called, Wilson and her rushed forward. He didn't look back and walked as fast as his good leg would allow. "Shit!" She cursed as she realized he wasn't going to stop. They ceased outside of Erin's door. The crying grew louder. Cuddy looked at Wilson. He heard Erin, too. He looked at Cuddy who seemed to be just as confused and absentmindedly came up with a plan.

"You take care of Erin. I'll bring him back."

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: Only a few more chapters to go. I hope to finish before the actual show ends so I can have my say on how it should've ended. As always read and review. You fuel my inspiration, keep them coming!**_

_**-Visions of Paradise**_


	16. A Last Request Before Dying

_**Chapter 16: A Last Request Before Dying**_

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><p><em><strong>AN: It seems I've become aware of a little obstacle thanks to one of my darling reviewers and would like to address this quickly: According to most places if you look up the House series, you'll find that the House M.D. Show is done in real-time with few exceptions. I've tried to bear this in mind to make my time line of events concurrent. So the facts are this: House M.D. debuted on November 16, 2004. Assuming this is correct on how the show works: House has known Wilson and Cuddy for almost/just over/just under/etc. 20 years. It's stated House dated Stacey about 10 years prior to the first season, which would be around late '94- early '95, when she enters the show, she's already married. House's leg injury occurred sometime in '99, which was when they broke up (We all know why). I made Erin born in 1966, making her 44. I put the little girl Emma''s birth in 1988, making her death in 'early '92 in Chapter 8: **__**鉄**__**ilence Like A Cancer Grows I do know time lines and I have tried to put my characters just where they wouldn't really be noticeable, but because I am merely a non-profit writer and not involved in the production of the show, I'm bound to make a mistake here and there. So I beg your forgiveness when you notice something like that.**_

_**And to answer your first question, **__**滴**__**ow come she doesn't know what happened to his leg?If he's mad at her and I haven't revealed why or how long he's hated her yet, or for that matter when the last time they spoke was, I think that leaves open a nice little window right there on why she wouldn't know. Hope that clears some things up! :)**_

_**-Visions of Paradise**_

_**PS- As I've stated, everything will make more sense at the end! Be patient! On with the story!**_

_**As always, Read & Review.**_

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><p><em><em>Wilson looked around the hallway, realizing the only place he could have gone to was the elevator. As he approached the big silver doors, he thought to himself where he would go if he had been House. Chances are, he pondered as he heard the bell ding and entered the elevator, he'd been unnerved and humiliated by his inability to confront a mere patient in front of people who knew him and his no-nonsense reputation. _That's it_, he realized suddenly. House would want to leave the hospital. Quickly, his hand moved over the elevator's button panel and pushed the garage button, signified with a giant, letter 'G'. It seemed fitting. He felt the low dip in the pit of his stomach as the elevator began its descent. He shrugged out of his doctor's jacket as he watched the floors digitally being counted down. He felt the elevator rattle a bit as it hit his floor. Once more, he heard the bells ding and he quickly made his way out of the elevator to the garage. He smelled the distinctive aroma of rain as a brush of wind hit his face.

"Shit." Wilson muttered under his breath as he made his way out of the garage, looking for any trace of his friend; already knowing his motorcycle would be parked in the front- where he was currently sprinting. Suddenly, he got a glimpse of him trying to put his helmet on quickly. Wilson put his doctors jacket back on, lifted it over his head and ran to him. The rain was really starting to pour now and seemed to be getting worse with every passing moment.

"House!" He called as he halted beside his friend who was mounting his motorcycle, his face completely obscured by the visor of the helmet. Where are you going?

"I can't do this!" Came an angry growl from House.

"It's alright!" Wilson yelled over the loud patter of the rain that was already soaking through the thin material of the doctor's jacket over his head. House took a moment to notice the bruises on Wilson's face were fading already, but the cut on his lower lip remained prominent. Cuddy expected too much of you! I know it's hard, but you can't keep running away!"

"I'm not running away! I have to do something!" House yelled back. Wilson desperately searched for an answer, a reason to make House get off the motorcycle and try again. He only thought of one thing.

"Alright! At least let me take you where you need to go!" Wilson blurted out. House stopped his leg in mid-air from starting the bike, to turn his head and look seriously at his rain drenched friend, who's hair was matted down into little tendrils with beads of water rolling off constantly either onto his face or straight down to the pavement.

"Okay" House relented. He stood up tall and got off his bike, pulling his cane out from under the side of the bike. He got his footing and slipped off his helmet and looked at Wilson with all seriousness. Not a word was spoken between them. Wilson stopped hunching over under his doctor's coat, dropped the coat back down and stood in the rain looking at House. His face was still messed up pretty good, Wilson thought as he admired his handy work. He also then realized that House wasn't really saying 'okay', he was actually saying sorry. So Wilson said the only thing he could thing of to say.

"Okay."

They both headed quickly to Wilson's SUV, parked in front of the hospital entrance. They both got in quickly once Wilson pulled open the door and pressed the unlock button. Once both doors were closed, they sat in the silence for a moment, with just glances between them, both soaked to the gills from the rain that had them both completely soaked through their clothes. Wilson wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, to dry his face a little. House just sat, staring at the dash as Wilson inserted the keys and started the ignition. The patter of the rain was the only sound bouncing against the metallic exterior of the vehicle as they sat quietly, neither knowing what to say to the other. Wilson looked over at him as he thought about turning the radio on to drown out the white noise.

"So where do you need to go?" Wilson asked House suddenly, losing his patience. House sat quietly for a short while before, he spoke, seemingly to the dash as he still hadn't looked at Wilson since entering the car.

"Pedro's Inn." House said and returned to his mute stance.

"What's that?" Wilson asked as he put the car in reverse and began to pull out of the parking space.

"The motel you picked me up from last week." House answered, almost as if he was annoyed like Wilson had forgotten some type of fond memory between them both. Wilson found himself traveling with silent company. It was odd to think that for the first time, House had forgotten how to speak. It was bad most the time when House thought of something to say, but it seemed downright nerve wracking when he couldn't think of anything to say.

House, on the other hand, wasn't thinking of anything to say. He couldn't stop thinking of the past week. It was painful to him to see Erin like that, to see how much control of his life he'd lost in such a short period of time. He didn't believe anything was out of his control, now he did. For practically the first time in his life, Doctor Gregory House was out of ideas and out of control and utterly helpless in every aspect of his life. It would no doubt be all over the hospital by the time he returned how 鍍he man who didn't know the meaning of fearhad lost his nerve by coming face to face with a door. He felt humiliated by that. But it paled in comparison to the panic he felt in his chest. He once read somewhere that the worst part of loving someone wasn't coming in while they were getting hurt, but coming in during the second act when it was already too late to keep from happening. Damn his secret obsession to reading Jodi Picoult books.

As the miles spread them further towards the motel known as Pedro's Inn and further away from Princeton-Plainsboro, Wilson found himself wanting to talk to House but not coming up with anything that wasn't wanting to console his friend, or insult him terribly. So he blurted out the only thing that he could think of to ask.

"House," He asked. "Why are we going to Pedro's Inn?" House was reposed against a window, his hand covering his eyes like he had a major headache.

"I told you," House responded, sounding annoyed. "There's some business I have to take care of." He cured Wilson's curiosity, not taking his hand from his face. It was obvious he wasn't giving anymore insights into his methods. The hum of the engine and the sound of the rain grew softer as they left the rainstorm behind.

"Are you worried about tomorrow?" Wilson asked as they slowed to a stop light and prepared to make a right turn. Wilson glanced at House, hoping he'd at least look at him. When he didn't, he turned his attention back to the road.

House thought to himself. It was Sunday. Tomorrow, they'd be killing off Erin's immune system. House still thought something was wrong with the final diagnosis, he still felt it. He had no proof and although unsettling, it fit. He hated to admit it, but it did. There was nothing more he could do. Perhaps that's why he just rushed out of the hospital with this insane idea, and why he allowed Wilson to accompany him.

"Of course, I'm worried." House answered as he removed his hand from his forehead and gave his first glance at Wilson, noticing all the injuries to his face, wondering what else he'd done to his friend. They both looked like they had run into a biker gang of diesel-dykes wielding switchblades. "If you're right, she'll die. If I'm right, she'll die a lot sooner."

Wilson kept his eyes on the road. House was still on probation from his ordeal with Cuddy. After almost killing her and leaving him on that street, House disappeared. When he came back and Wilson got his summons to testify against him, it was revealed he went to St. Bart's or Hawaii, even House claimed he couldn't recall. It bugged Wilson to think about what House had done. Sure it resulted in a short stint in county jail, but it could have just as easily been prison. It should have been, but the system of justice in these United States, was woefully far from perfect. A stint of two months in jail and 6 years probation was all that was given, but it seemed enough to keep House reasonably in line.

"I'm sorry I testified against you." Wilson stated, blatantly. The words seemed to catch House off guard as he stared back at Wilson and House made no effort to hide his surprise. It was an extremely rare thing to see House caught off guard. He acted like he did all the time, but this was pure, unaltered shock. He almost felt sorry for doing it, as it seemed he'd been taken for a ride for the past week by everyone with shocking news and developments that affected him left and right.

"It's alright. Wasn't really that surprising. I just thought we'd be in it together." House took his turn to surprise Wilson and laughed. A real, honest-to-God, genuine laugh. "But I knew when it happened, you'd sell me out the first chance you got for a lesser sentence." House looked at Wilson expectantly and found himself smiling as well.

"The only thing I don't get is, you had a clean get away. You were out-of-bounds, so to speak. Why did you come back?" It was the only thing he couldn't figure out. He had known him so long, in retrospect, what he did- really shouldn't have taken him by surprise the way it did. It shocked him but he did get over it surprisingly quick, but he remembered actually crying over the aspect of House being in such trouble and he couldn't do anything this time to help him. It wasn't like the Detective Tripper issue that happened. It was almost funny it seemed so long ago. The first time he met House within 30 minutes, he was in handcuffs. And now, so many years later, he'd seen House in them. It seemed almost prophetic. House thought and answered quickly enough.

"Jimmy, you know I'm a glutton for punishment." House looked over and smirked in Wilson's direction. "Besides, too much salty air and sunshine. You know I burn easily with my fair skin."

"Yep. Person can get real sick of water and sunshine." Wilson looked at the storm clouds gathering over their heads that he was hoping to outrun. It seemed they had run away in the exact the direction the storm was heading.

* * *

><p>Cuddy looked over Erin as she seemed to settle down a bit, but seemed to be in more pain suddenly. Cuddy had had to push the button for Erin's morphine pump, because Erin refused to. They temporarily sedated her and she seemed to calm, but she was still crying a bit as she nodded in and out of consciousness and finally, was knocked out all together. Chase entered the room and looked at Erin with a wary eye before he turned his attention to Cuddy.<p>

"You paged me?" He asked, curiously as he walked to her side by Erin's bed. The beeps of machines surrounded them. Cuddy crossed her arms across her chest and locked her eyes on Erin's sleeping form.

"Yes." Cuddy responded finally. She cleared her throat nervously and continued. "Have you heard anything about House?" She knew it was worthless, but she tried anyway. She needed to know he was alright. She tried so much, even after their relationship had ended, to make herself believe she didn't care about him but failed endlessly. To forget him made her feel like she was trying to remember someone she'd never met.

"No, I haven't." Chase glanced at Erin's stats, concerned. "Why? What happened now?" He changed his stance to match Cuddy's. Cuddy thought for a second, she wanted to blurt out the whole truth and tell him exactly what was going on. Then she remembered how much House enjoyed his privacy. She decided to go with the bare minimum.

"He had to visit Erin again and he couldn't make himself do it." She stated, plainly. She wanted to start from the beginning and try to get him to understand the gravity of this situation was a lot more than it appeared. But she knew that he knew that anything concerning House was more complex than it appeared to be.

Chase also thought to himself. She didn't know that he knew Erin's relationship to House, thanking Taub silently for his inability to keep secret information to himself. Chase was clueless, however, as to what that meant she wanted from him. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long for an answer.

"Doctor Wilson had to go get House, and in his absence, I'm making you her attending."

Chase felt like it was out of his range, he did want to help her, but he felt with what was wrong with her, no matter the outcome of the case, he would be to blame. But this was his boss and rather than let someone else mess her case up even more than it had been, he nodded and accepted the appointed position. He felt cornered.

"Okay." She said and began to make her exit. But Chase had one more question for her before she left.

"Out of curiosity," Chase interrupted. Cuddy stopped and turned her attention from the door back to him. "Why did you pick me for the attending? Oncology isn't exactly my specialty." Cuddy thought for a second.

"No, but Doctor Wilson's is. She's already been diagnosed, we just have to keep comfortable." Came her answer. Chase nodded his head again as Cuddy turned on her heel and walked out of the room.

* * *

><p>Cuddy entered her office lamenting her career decision. It was like she was more than a hospital administrator, but more a babysitter than anything else. She thought to herself in her one moment of free time about all the things she had to complete later, all Rachel's appointments and play-dates. Then seemingly out of nowhere, she thought about Wilson's comment to her. She had always liked James, but it always seemed their personal availability never coincided. Wilson was always married, for a second or third time but married nevertheless. And she was either dating someone she thought things would work out with that usually blew up in her face. She thought of him fondly as one of her colleagues, friend, and sometimes when need be, confidante. She never had a man notice her wearing a new perfume before, she thought as she smiled to herself. But she didn't know how he felt towards her, she had no way of knowing. She sighed to herself sadly and banished the thought from her mind.<p>

* * *

><p>Chase came back to check on Erin just before his shift ended, thinking it'd be nice of him if he paid her a visit before he left for the day. He would be back before his next scheduled shift in the morning, so he could see her off, regardless if Wilson was there or not. Erin was sitting up weakly in bed, watching television in the dark as he entered. The only light came from a long flourescent that was over her bed.<p>

"Hi." He greeted her smiling as he walked across the room to her bedside.

"Hey." She welcomed. They had put an oxygen hose up to her face, she looked horrible. Her face was scratched and he could see the almost black bruises on her arm that still hadn't lightened. But her hair was washed and straightened, he noticed and she smelled like perfume that he'd smelled somewhere before.

"Who did your hair?" He asked to break the ice, knowing lately she hadn't had the strength to stand, much less bathe herself. She smiled weakly.

"Doctor Hadley." Erin ran a hand over it, being conscious of it suddenly.

"Looks good." He complimented. Hadley- er, Thirteen- That's where he had smelled the perfume before. He sat down on the bed beside her and looked over her chart from the end of her bed. "I see you've been having more grand mal seizures." He looked at her to elaborate anything onto that, even though he knew it was kind of pointless to ask. People having a seizure were not aware of what was going on when they had one. They pretty much blacked out and came to a few moments later, unaware of what had taken place. "Any aura's?" He asked. An aura was a warning sign an epileptic would get just before seizing; they varied person to person for different feelings, sensations, sight disturbances and smells.

"Not with these." She answered.

"Ah. Break through seizures." He deducted. "We'll up your medication on the Dilantin to three, 100 miligram capsules twice a day, and I think we'll switch the Depakote to Trileptal and we'll do two, 100 miligram capsules at the same time as the Dilantin." He looked at her for approval as he wrote the new directives down for the nurses. "Sound good?"

"I guess." Erin shrugged. "Don't know why you're asking me, I'm not the one in the white coat." Chase laughed a little. she chuckled herself.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." He responded, talking normal again once the laughter passed. "So tomorrow is the procedure. Any thoughts or concerns?" She thought for a moment, before she was cut off by a sudden question from Chase.

"Where'd your letter go?" He asked. She sat up, shaking badly. She had temporary, specific ataxia, or loss of muscle control in her arms, Chase noticed as he watched her attempt to retrieve something from under her pillow, her arms not wanting to cooperate. Chase offered his assistance to her, pulling out an envelope. He read the front as he looked the letter over for an address, but it simply stated "_To Greg"_. He motioned to the letter in his hand as he sat back down on her bed.

"Could you give that to him for me?" Erin asked. "Think of it as a last request." She chuckled to herself, but the humor was lost on Chase who sat solemnly.

"Of course." He answered. His mind began to drift off to her situation. He couldn't help but blurt out what he had thought about. "Are you absolutely sure there's no one we could call for you?" He watched as she stared off into space, thinking about all the people she knew. He even thought about people he knew House knew. He knew he had seen House's parents once, and as far as he knew, though his father died, his mother was still alive. Erin had marked that both her parents were deceased. From what he'd gathered, even if their mother was still alive. It wasn't his place to interfere, ultimately, and even if he'd been inclined to do so, he couldn't bare the thought of betraying her trust.

"Yes." Erin finally answered to his surprise. "I want you to call Sasha Taylor."

"Really? And who is Sasha to you?" Chase asked, writing the name down.

"A close friend." Erin gave Chase the number to reach her friend at.

"What about your mother?" Chase inquired.

"We haven't talked in years." Erin replied, sadly. Chase listened intently as she spoke. It seemed she was speaking just to be able to; not to have any consolation, but just to speak. "My parents weren't the most supportive. Usual sad story of "my parents didn't hug me enough". They moved me and Greg around practically every other week and were emotionally dead on the inside. Our father was an army-man and our mother was a model, army-man's wife. It was lonely. We couldn't keep any friends, momentos were always lost in the moves. If we had a problem, the only thing dad said was to 'Face it head-on'." She did an impersonation of a drill sergeant's voice. She laughed at herself afterward. "Everything was no reward and harsh punishment, done wrong or not good enough. Belt beatings till we were thirteen. Not one word to Greg when he graduated high school, just a hand shake when he completed medical school and not a word of encouragement along the way. Never one apology. We just couldn't seem to get out fast enough."

"What about your mom?" Chase asked, concerned.

"She was worse." Erin said swallowing hard.

"She never said anything."


	17. Somewhere, There is Hope

**A/N: Yes, it's back.**

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><p>House and Wilson pulled up into a large parking lot in front of Pedro's Inn. They reached the office and House gauged the rain and how long the run in would be. He couldn't remember where the room was located of Julian for the life of him, so he believed this was the best place to start. But then again, he realized, he didn't even know his last name. Just that it was something common….and Spanish. Wilson and House fled the car and ran out into the drizzling rain and hurried as quickly as their feet would allow them into the front office, House hobbling along. Once inside, they wiped what rain they could off themselves and looked around the closed space with its linoleum floor and pristine white walls. The immaculate room looked like it should not be affiliated with the rest of the seedy motel. Perhaps it was a trap to draw the potential renters into thinking the décor was somehow a reflection of the rest of the rooms and thereby, its occupants. House walked forward, led by his cane, carefully across the slick surfaced floor to the large, bulletproof glass that separated the customers from the check-in clerk. He took a look around the space he could see just beyond the glass, only to find a vacated office chair.<p>

Wilson approached behind House, looking for any clue of a human presence and when there was none to be found; he spotted the service bell and rang it, softly. Within a second, there was no response. House angrily rang the bell, obsessed with getting an answer somehow. Once they waited a good five minutes, Wilson broke the silence.

"Who are you looking for, House?" He asked, ringing out what he could from his coat and let it carelessly splash onto the floor.

"Julian." House answered as he continued to try to gather his mental abilities to try to telecommunicate with whoever was in charge of the joint. He was getting a headache, and his leg was beginning to let itself be known.

"Julian, who?" Wilson inquired, hoping his friend would be able to come up with something more to go on. House was mentally frustrated at knowing he was told Julian's last name, but when he thought about it, the more the memory seemed to be chased away.

"Just Julian! If I knew his last name, I'd probably be able to call someone to find him." House's voice was seething. He was pressed for time and he felt like he had to get things done and he only had a limited time to do it in, and the clocks only made him more aware of the time escaping him.

"House," Wilson slowed his tone, trying to be considerate and understanding. "I'm just trying to help you." House gripped the counter with one hand punched it as hard as he could with the other.

"I know!" House exclaimed. He took a deep breath and tried to recompose himself. "I know." House walked over to a blue cushioned chair with steel legs. He fell into it as if he was defeated. "For the first time, I just don't know what to do."

Wilson took a seat beside him, bringing back unpleasant memories of his patients. He would always sit down right next to them to give them the news instead of doing the cold stare across the professional desk that erased all humanity from the situation, he felt. "Well, I don't know what to tell you to do."

House rubbed his hand over his face, his eyes feeling more sensitive to the light than usual. He felt the beginnings of a migraine creeping up the back of his head and making its way forward. He reached into the pocket of his coat and twisted open the cap of his Vicodin. He thought, for the briefest moment, that he shouldn't take anymore. It wasn't that he was concerned about his liver, but he was pondering if he actually was sober if there would be something revealed in his mind about the answer. Like in a moment of clarity, it would come to him if he was open and alert. But then he also knew he wouldn't be much good to anybody if he was in too much pain to even think. With that con added to his list, he immediately tilted the bottle back let 3 more pills fall to the back of his throat that he dry-swallowed. Wilson simply shook his head at the action. It came with the territory, he knew.

"Well," Wilson began. "Unless you have a better idea than going door to door calling for Julian, there isn't much else we can do." He resigned himself to leave it to House's decision since he felt that if it truly was important to House, he would do what he could and go along for the ride. House raised his head and dropped his hands at Wilson's advice. Standing to his feet and grabbing his cane, he began walking out into the courtyard through an opposite door to the office that led to a courtyard. Wilson, curiously followed.

"House," He called, covering his face from the lighter downpour. "What are you doing?" He fast walked to try to keep up to House's surprisingly, brisk pace.

"Exactly what you told me to do." House tossed the comment back over his shoulder, loudly over the sound of the mixture of the wind and rain. He stopped in front of a random door and rapped on it with the handle of his cane.

"House, the only thing we're doing is getting pneumonia!" Wilson announced, starting to shiver in his soaking shirt and slacks. It was cold from the rain and growing humid even though the sun was completely hidden from view behind dark clouds, that seemed to be moving quickly, soon to be covered by darker, angrier looking clouds. House turned back suddenly and began walking to the next door, with Wilson tracking his steps. "We need to get back to the hospital. Maybe we haven't tried everything..."

"Yes!" House immediately turned to face Wilson. "Yes we have. I've done all I can, or I wouldn't be here! And you know we've done everything or you wouldn't be here with me in case I'm alone when she dies and you're afraid I'll take that one step over the edge!" He wiped the rain from his face, angrily. "We're both here cause we're scared. You're scared cause you don't understand. I'm scared because I do." His voice calmed down, but his fists shook. Whether from the cold of his clinging clothes or the adrenaline that still resided in his veins, neither House nor Wilson could tell.

Wilson understood what he meant. Somehow, it was true, he didn't understand. He didn't know how House was feeling and even though neither of their wounds were completely physical y or emotionally gone. The scars they'd placed on each other ran deep, just as the current of their friendship. House seemed almost manic. He was angry and scared, and that fear was causing him to rip apart the world at its fault lines. House sighed as they approached the next door.

"You can leave, if that's what you need to do." House offered. "If that's what you think is right. Not because it's what Cuddy expects. But I need your help." He blurted candidly. "I just need you to do this with me." Wilson understood then. He got the point that even though he wasn't able to take House from this dreary confined place where he had kept himself for so long, it had occurred to Wilson that even if he couldn't save him, he could be there with him. Go to wherever he felt he needed to go with him. Be stuck in that place for however long it takes with him so that they might have a chance to get the other out. He would have to stop asking questions and follow. Because that's what friends did.

Wilson closed his eyes, swallowing this information down. "Okay." He answered. And that was all House needed to hear as he took his cane once again and tapped it on the new door. The blinds from just the other side of the door lifted momentarily before they flung themselves shut once more before either of them even had the opportunity to make out if they had seen anybody's eyes or face. The door quickly swung open. There in the epicenter of the doorframe, stood a corpulent man who looked Latin, but most obviously a gang-affiliated person. Wearing a stereotypical wife-beater, clean-shaven head, and general 'piss off' attitude, but his arms were curiously vacant of any hardcore tattoos that these type of men typically wore; with the small exception for the number 13 inked into the webbing of his hand. He starred down at House and Wilson from just the other side of the threshold.

"You want something?" He boomed, obviously not caring who the two semiprofessionally dressed white men at his door were, just concerned with their business.

"We were just looking for someone…" Wilson began saying in the most ethical, non-threatening tone he could muster. But before the sentence could be completed, the stranger rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue.

"That's real interesting, man. But if you need help finding someone, maybe you should just get your other cop friends to check their surveillance videos. Unless you arrest me, I'm not talking to any 5-0." He spoke hurriedly and rushed back inside.

"But we're not-!" Wilson tried to finish, but the door slam beat him to the punch. He glanced back towards House defeated, both of them soaked to the bone. House kept his focus down at his shoes, gripping his cane. He raised his eyes to Wilson who shrugged his shoulders, exasperated. "House, I don't know what to do. I have a feeling no one is going to talk to us around here willingly. They'll all think we're cops," He then lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "Or with immigration."

House took this into consideration. Wilson was right. But at the end of the day, what choice did they really possess?

"What're we going to do, House?" He implored, getting an unusual headache of his own. The long drive and weather was taking its toll. They were both freezing, but to Wilson it only looked like it was a minor inconvenience. Perhaps the combination of adrenaline, time-suppression and Vicodin made his blood temperature elevated. He, on the other hand, was shivering and teeth chattering.

House turned his footing to walk away. "There are a lot of doors. _Someone_ is going to open theirs. And_ someone_ is going to talk to us." He concluded his logic and started heading to the next door.

Wilson was about to object, when he remembered he knew how House felt. How it felt to be grasping at straws for any shred of hope. Sure, he probably realized in the back of his mind also that in the end, it would be hopeless, but he was going to let him do what he felt was necessary. Surely, House had in mind the outline of a plan. But there was also the smallest trace present to prove that House was incapable of sitting on his hands and waiting for things to be taken out of his hands. He needed to feel some type of control. The drugs were picked up to control the way he felt, and now this goose chase seemed to be picked up to give him something to do in the mean time.

Just like his own tragedy with Amber. He understood. If he had had the option and thought it would help, he would've done anything. Anything but waste all those precious moments while he watched everyone else figure things out for him. The seconds and hours counted how long he stayed in the waiting rooms, or waiting for news, or watching in the OR theatre as they tried to figure out the mystery on their own with no clues. House's madness had method, and Wilson actually was a little worried about his own sanity because it was starting to make sense to him, even though he still had no idea what they were doing.

But Wilson decided he would let House continue to go about his ways, and what's more, he would follow him. He would go with him, help any way he could, do what was asked of him and help House back up when everything fell from his hands and shattered. He couldn't endure a heart attack or solve this mystery he knew, even if House denied it a thousand times, he would've done the same if the situation was vice-versa. He tried to focus on the bright side: The rain was calming down, for starters. And no matter how many times a door was slammed in their face, another would open until they found who House was looking for or found someone who knew who House was looking for. There was the small downside, that it was a motel. Whoever he was looking for could be gone. But he had to keep the doubt to himself and believe they would find this guy.

He had to. This was House's only option left, and he couldn't make himself think of the possibilities of what would happen to him if they failed.

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><p><strong>**AN:: Sorry that this took so damn long. Lot of issues. But rather than make excuses, now that I've missed my own personal deadline to finish this story before the show ended, I've decided to finish what I've started still and not leave anyone hanging, since people are still interested in this story. Please Read and Review as this story is FINALLY drawing to a close, and reviews are my incentive to keep my ass going since I'm not seeing any money from this. Thank you all for hanging in with me and I hope my loyal reviewers haven't abandoned me by now. I'll try to make the next one longer, this one was to pretty much prove that I was still alive and haven't totally abandoned it.**


	18. A Hard Choice

_**Chapter 18: A Hard Choice**_

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><p>Chase sat, alone in the conference room. A notepad and pen poised together in his hands, but curiously, he'd stopped writing and even paying attention to it in any aspect. All he could think about, at this moment, was the letter Erin had given him. The curiosity, everything that had eaten him up inside about House and even the most important question of all: How much damage has to be done to a person all their life for them to end up like House? All of it, every answer he had ever wanted to obtain about him, could be contained in that letter. Even, possibly, why House could be so cruel and callous towards Erin. He relented he hadn't known her as well, or even a small fraction the measured time that House had shared with her, but he just couldn't seem to figure it out. He was always a cynic, he thought through carefully as he dropped the pen with a solid, clack against the notepad on the table and shuffled through his satchel on the floor, and returned with his hands death-gripping the plainly addressed letter. He held it in both his hands in front of him, staring blankly at it. Erin's forlorn-hope lay clasped in his palms.<p>

_Maybe this was all a trap_, he thought bitterly. _No one could be as nice as this woman was pretending to be_. Perhaps, he thought, if she really were in dire-straights the doctors wouldn't help her enough to try to get her healed. Because of her lacking any major medical insurance, she would have to go the extra mile and get everyone somehow on her side. Befriending all of them in some major or minor way. Maybe Erin was a closet sociopath. Chase leaned his back into the seat and stared at the ceiling, rubbing one of his hands over his face as he let out a yawn, not letting the letter go even for a second. He felt the stubble that was all over his face, the hours spent over laptops and research books, and talking to all the specialists he knew, just looking for any theories that might aide in the inconvenient truth, or a miraculous cure. There was no cure in any nook or cranny, nor left any rock unturned.

Suddenly the glass door swished open, not loud, but enough to let Chase know his privacy was invaded. Dr. Hadley walked in looking haggard as well. Apparently, when doctors got no sleep in hospitals, they did it as they worked: in shifts. There were bags under her eyes, which were trying to be made to vanish with concealer, but were betrayed by the red the rimmed the waterline of her eyes giving a red, puffy appearance. Her hair, slightly unwashed, was thrown back in a half-hazard pony tail. He could tell instantly, she'd been hitting the books too. She crossed the office, yawning, heading in a bee line for the coffee machine. She glanced nonchalantly in Chase's direction, knowing exactly what he was working on, but then the letter in front of him caught her eye as she grabbed her Styrofoam cup and headed to the table with a tirade of questions. She waited for a moment for Chase to be polite and break the silence or extend a friendly greeting but after a moment none came and it was left up to her.

"What's that?" She skipped the formalities as she took the seat across from him, while he blatantly continued staring at the letter in front of him. He sighed.

"It's a letter from Erin." He replied simply. When she found the sender's identity that let a whole landslide of questions flood her mind. Was Erin making a pass at Chase?

"A letter?" She repeated. It didn't seem to be logical. She believed Erin was smarter than to get involved with an infamous playboy. "Why would she give you a letter?"

"Because she wants me to give it to someone." He was offended, hearing the way her voice insinuated that he was beneath getting letters. "Thanks for asking." He flipped the letter around in his fingers, examining it from all sides.

"I didn't mean anything by it." Thirteen consoled his bruised ego. "It's just, most people send emails or telephone calls. They don't do letters unless it's something extremely important." Her voice trailed off as she thought some more. "Or something that needs to be said to someone and they don't want to hear the response." She ran over discarded letter beginning she found in Erin's room and had kept, secretly. It had simply read, "_Dear Greg, I'm sorry I lied._" But that was as far as Erin had gotten before she'd balled it up and aimed it for the trash can. This letter must've been important to her for her to have started over so many times. In a way, she was smart to have written a letter instead of just calling him up. Not just because, no doubt, he would've just hung up on her. But because the words were going to stay with him, he couldn't run anywhere.

The metaphorical light bulb went off above Chase's head. _That's it_, he thought, _it must be something terrible_. The only thing he knew for sure without opening the letter was it had some news inside that she couldn't reveal before now. Whatever it was, it must be huge.

"You may have something there." Chase responded at last as he set the letter down gently on the table, unable to look at it anymore. The woman was a mystery novel character that much was certain. She reveled in her opaqueness and secrets. She had the whole hospital abuzz with rumors, the staff carried on theories and bets in the cafeteria. It was just like she turned Princeton-Plainsboro into a high school overnight. Maybe the lack of sleep was driving him mad. He was suddenly over thinking everything and every detail to death.

"It makes sense." Thirteen blew on then sipped her coffee gingerly. She swallowed, "Who does she want you to give the letter to?"

"House." Chase declared quietly, meeting Thirteen's eyes. He noticed her eyes blazed with a new emotion he couldn't identify. Perhaps, inside, she wanted to open it just as badly. He wondered if he was walking around this whole time with the same look on his face. Almost a childlike sense of curiosity glazed over his eyes?

"Well, where is he?" She inquired.

"Gone." He rethought his answer and added quickly, "Again." Thirteen in took a quick breath of fresh air, about to speak, before Chase cut her off. "And nobody knows where. But word is, he ran out of here like a bat out of hell after he was going to go into Erin's room. He just turned, and ran." He motioned with his hands to illustrate what he was saying. "He ran straight out of the hospital and Wilson chased after him and nobody," He highlighted the word with emphasis and repetition. "_Nobody _has seen either of them since."

Hadley didn't have to speak. She remembered her encounter with him. Something about Erin just terrified him. He wouldn't face her, unless she was unconscious and even then, not for very long. She always thought House so fearless after having been in jail numerous times for this and that and none of the heavy consequences ever made him stop. Not when it came to losing his job, his friends, or even his freedom. It was astounding and mind-boggling at the same time.

"Probably holed up in a bottle somewhere and Wilson's trying to talk him out of it." Chase concluded. He didn't know if that prediction would ease her mind or add troubles. "I've been trying to think of some reason to keep me from opening it myself and just resealing it later."

"How about for a starter, House would kill you and Erin would probably kill herself trying to kill you." Thirteen advised, taking another leisure sip from her coffee. She made no effort to stop him from doing any course of action he chose. She could give him her two cents but, in the end, it was him who would decide how the change was spent.

"But don't you realize what could be in here? Answers! Direct knowledge!" Chase thudded his hand on the table on top of the letter.

"Yeah, and someone's trust!" Thirteen was flabbergasted. "Erin trusted you enough that you would give that letter to who she intended it. There are someone's feelings and emotions in there." She motioned to the letter. "Maybe that's her last chance to get the answers that she needs to know."

They both sat in firm silence for a stretch of time with the letter sitting between them both. But how long had passed exactly wasn't known and neither could measure the moments contemplating before the door swung open once more. Chase made a desperate grab for the letter, and Thirteen watched as doctors Taub and Foreman entered the room, chatting about last night's basketball game. Taub's position was that the Lakers were cheated and it was a wrong call while Foreman made his disagreement well known.

"…The last shot missed. How can you argue with that?" Foreman argued, setting his folder down on the table as he briskly walked to the coffee machine.

"Because he dunked the three-pointer before the break!" Taub responded angrily as he dipped his hand into his vending machine bought bag of Chex Mix and once found, threw a handful into his mouth. "I didn't think it'd happen twice." He answered sheepishly with his mouth full. Foreman turned around quickly at that.

"So you admit you lost!" Foreman pointed out. He laughed with glee and stomped his feet in a mini dance as he set his coffee on the table. "Ha! Ha! That's one-hundred, one dollar bills please." He extended his hand across the table animatedly. Which Taub filled with a single, one-hundred dollar bill he fished from his wallet grudging every moment of Foreman's smugness as he looked at the bill and kissed it.

"Yeah, but I didn't think you'd hold me to it." Taub said as he put his wallet back into his pants pocket, where he fished from. "And I still don't agree with that call." He muttered under his breath.

"Until they bring it up on national TV, we'll just agree to disagree." Foreman spoke with a hidden gloating in his voice as he pocketed the money and sat down with the rest of the group. It was then, a moment after he sat down, that he noticed Chase and Thirteen sitting in silence looking uncomfortable. Foreman took a sip of his coffee, before looking at them both and weighed the decision to speak. Just on the other side of the table, Foreman wasn't the only one who took notice. Taub was sitting, enjoying his Chex Mix, watching them as well.

"Did someone die?" Taub asked, swallowing, glancing from Chase back to Thirteen. He took particular notice of the unopened letter in Chase's hands. When no one answered the first question, he took to asking another. "Okay, who's the letter from?"

Once it was mentioned, it got everyone's attention. There wasn't one set of eyes not looking at it suspiciously. It was the first time Chase took his attention from off of the accursed object he seemed to be the elected keeper of. Now, he was sure Erin made a mistake in her decisions. It should've been anyone, someone other than him. He cleared his throat and met Thirteen's eyes, like she was supposed to give him some cue. At least an idea of what to say. Could he be able to trust Foreman and Taub's input. He was already certain he had an idea of what Taub's would be.

"It's from Erin." Chase came back with, and when the eyes almost popped out of both their heads, he decided to nip it in the bud. "No, it's not for me. She trusted me with this letter to give it to House when I saw him."

"No danger of that happening any time soon. Not if you've all heard what happened." Foreman sat back and clasped his hands together behind his head for support, still looking pleased with his victory over Taub.

"But he has a moral dilemma." Thirteen spoke at last. Taub gave an interested look as he popped the last handful of pretzel mix into his mouth. Foreman looked quizzical as he raised an eyebrow.

"What's so difficult?" Foreman began. "You see House, and you say 'Hi, House. I know you don't really want this because you'll probably shred it in a moment, but here you go.' And you hand him the letter. It's easy as pie." Foreman finished thinking out loud and took a long drink from his cup. "I don't see what that has to do with morality."

"My problem is that I know it's wrong, but I know that it has the answers in it. Why House hates her is definitely in it. But maybe other things, maybe trivial, or it may have the very reason why House is so beyond repair." Chase then brought his attention back down to the letter, this time he looked at it as if it were Pandora's Box instead of the simple letter that it was.

"Your first instincts are usually the right ones to follow." Foreman countered. "Erin obviously trusted you with this instead of someone else, so she must've felt that it was the right thing to do. The feeling that she could count on you was there."

"Yes, I've already established that." Chase retorted, remembering Thirteen's lecture just before Taub and Foreman's arrival. "Is there any other reason?"

"Yeah, smartass, there is. How about when she comes to after her procedure and House goes to see her, for some reason, and she asks, 'so what did you think of the letter?' Then House finds out that you got a personal, _very private_, letter for him and you not only didn't give it to him, but that you opened it?" Foreman reprimanded him like a twelve year old boy that just got caught smoking by his dad. "You'd not only lose your job, but you'd probably get that cane of his upside your skull. Then, even if you sued, you'd probably lose due to House being under mental duress at the time of the beat down."

Chase considered it. He also envisioned House, numb by the pain killers; going insane on him and getting whacked a couple of times with the cane before it was inserted in a very painful place. He'd never sit right again, that much was certain.

"I say, you should just do it." Taub spoke up at last. Foreman and Thirteen immediately jumped him.

"How could you say that?" Thirteen bellowed, her eyes widened in shock.

"I mean, really? That's your opinion?" Foreman crossed his arms over his chest. The scolding had momentarily shifted from Chase. Chase was all ears to what Taub had to say.

"Hold it, hold it!" Taub made the universal hand signal for time out like a referee. Hadley and Foreman stopped speaking for a moment. "You've both made excellent arguments, but if I may back up mine?" Taub looked expectantly at anyone at the table who might cut him off or cut him off again. Once it was realized that there wasn't, he started to begin again. "There's a small chance of her waking up. According to House's theory, if it is something else, which is highly unlikely, the radiation will kill her within a few hours- day or two at most. She'll be too dehydrated from the vomiting and too tired to do anything really, except sleep. House won't have time to speak to her about anything, assuming he even comes back. He hates her, the question is why and my left hand says the answer is in there. He won't even have to really open it. He could hold the letter over some steam, it'll open on its own and then you just have to reseal it." He illustrated his words with a pantomime of hand gestures. "House will never be the wiser."

"I guess you wouldn't have a guilty conscience." Thirteen's disappointment was detectable in her tone.

"Guess we now know why she didn't pick you." Foreman observed out loud.

"Why? Because I'm human? Too honest? Or are you picking on me because once again, I'm disagreeing with you? Because she didn't pick you either, to remind you." Taub fired back at Foreman.

"This has nothing to do with sports games. You can't play with people's lives just because it might interest you." Foreman pointed out. "Has working for House too long finally rubbed off?" Taub looked offended and started to speak in a louder tone of voice. "Because that honestly was something House probably would've come up with."

"You know what?" Taub gathered his wits and got up quickly from the table and walked around the table to Chase, before he leaned down to him, everyone in the room got extremely quiet so they could all hear whatever it was he had to say. "Open it. Don't open it. Do whatever you think is what you should do," He eyed Foreman and Thirteen. "Not because it's what others think you should do or expect you to do." With his piece being said, Taub walked out of the room at a brisker than normal pace. Anyone who saw it would swear that if that door a normal door, he would've slammed it shut behind him. Apparently, Taub had a short fuse with people whose opinions differed from his own. Chase noted the incident for future reference as Foreman stood and began to gather his folder and coffee and began to head towards the door.

"Well, Taub was right about one thing." He said as he got to the door, and held it open for his parting words of wisdom. "Do whatever you want to do." He shrugged his shoulders. "I mean, you're going to anyway." With that being said, he turned, let the door commence closing and walked away. Once again, it was left down to Thirteen and Chase just as it had begun.

"So what are you going to do?" Thirteen asked, gulping down the rest of her coffee.

"I don't know." Chase sighed. "It's not so easy."

"Or maybe it is and you just like making things difficult for yourself." She tried to console him. He thought for a moment, and decided not to mention his fear that Erin wasn't as innocent as she seemed to be. Instead, while he made his decision by himself, he'd try to change tactics. He dropped the letter down in front of himself.

"Did I tell you Erin finally had me call somebody?" Chase broke the news which seemed to simultaneously astound and please Thirteen.

"She did? Who?" She was intrigued.

"A friend of hers," He thought hard to try to remember the name. "Sasha Taylor." It had come back to him.

"And…?" She encouraged him to continue.

"I got her machine." He sighed, once more. Thirteen could tell it wasn't going to be good news. "I left a message, but her recording let me know that she'd be, uh, out of the state." Chase saw Thirteen's eyes drop from delight to one of sorrow. "For the rest of the week."

"But by the time she gets back, she might be…" Thirteen didn't want to finish the thought, let alone say it out loud.

"I know." Chase rubbed his temple.

"But, surely, Erin has another number for her? A cell phone or some other number where she can be found?" Thirteen questioned him like a worried mother.

"No," Chase resigned. "No other numbers."

"A hotel, then? Something?" She asked again.

"No, no, nothing like that. If she does, she hasn't told me." He tiptoed around the subject as though he were walking on eggshells.

"Why wouldn't she tell you whether or not she had a phone number like that?" Thirteen was interrogating him now.

"Because I couldn't make myself tell her." He answered sheepishly. Thirteen sat back stunned.

"You tell people they may die every day, and in a few cases, that they were going to die." She was examining him now, something that might tell her the truth like it was just below the skin of his face. Or in his eyes, which she noticed were now unable to meet hers suddenly. "You can't make yourself tell this girl something that she desperately needs to know, or she runs the risk of dying and nobody she knows will know anything ever happened like she just vanished into thin air? That someone just disappears and leaves everything behind?"

"It's not that simple!" Chase leaned forward and looked at her face, eyes meeting finally as he spilled his reasons. "It's because I can't take the disappointed look on her face. Nothing about this girl is simple."

"We all went to see Amber." Thirteen countered. "We've had people, two of our own, die. What makes this one so different?" Then a thought crossed her mind. "You're not falling for her, are you?"

"No! No, nothing like that." And he wasn't. He wasn't falling for her. It was a different type of love he felt for this patient. She had given him advice, he'd prayed for her, been charged to her, she listened to him. And she made him feel like there was a possibility of a new, better Chase somewhere within himself. And no matter how miserable she felt, how horrible the drugs made her feel or how much pain she was in, she never complained. He felt like he'd be losing his little sister, and the thought was what was really killing him. "I just can't make myself tell her anymore bad news. I've never had this much trouble delivering bad news to someone in my entire life. Besides, it bears a little more gravity than letting her know her best friend can't make it to her birthday party this year. This is, 'you're dying and we can't find your best friend and if you don't have another number, we'll only be able to reach her to let her know you've died'."

"If you really can't make yourself do it, Chase," She reached to pat the back of his hand across the table. "I'll do it for you. She deserves to know this much at least, despite her reaction to it." Chase shook his head, and Thirteen got up and pushed her chair back in before leaving the conference room to go to Erin to give her the bad news. There was always the small hope that Erin would have another number to reach her friend by.

Chase stayed behind, admiring the letter once more. Then he pocketed it in his lab coat, and got up himself. He had taken in everything had said, and he wasn't sure still which voice to listen to. He walked across to the counter and got out the electric tea kettle and began to fill it with hot water and plugged it in. He waited, and weighed the pros and cons of opening and not opening the letter. Before he knew it, he heard the kettle begin to whistle and spurt steam. He reached for the letter and fished it out of his pocket. He began to place it in front of the spout where the steam was coming out nonstop. Once he had it lined up, it didn't take long for the glue to start to let go of holding itself shut. Before he even got to the middle, he began to think of Erin.

Erin, her pain, and her dwindling life, all coming to a sudden halt. He thought of her lying in the bed, in her room, and using all her strength to stay awake, stifle her nausea and write the letter. A letter that took effort and time and countless redo's to get perfect. He thought of the look of her, beautiful but pale and weak. How she looked with the tubes in her arms and the oxygen hose across her face the last time he'd seen her. How she needed help with the simple task of getting the letter out from underneath her pillow. It pained him to see her that way. It pained him to see any suffering come to another, but it felt like he'd known her all his life. He was almost glad he missed out on the sickness and ultimate death of his own father, just for the fact he didn't have to see him suffer.

He took the letter off the steam, unsure if he could go through with it. He then took the cord out of the socket, as he thought some more about what he was doing. What would Erin do if she were to find out? She'd never trust him again, let alone want to see him. Even if it were her last chance to. He watched the steam and whistling calm down, before they both stopped. He used to be Catholic. The guilt alone would eat him up and then he made his decision. He couldn't do that to Erin.

And he wouldn't.


End file.
